Of Fell and Exalted Blood
by aradian nights
Summary: When Morgan betrays his friends and country to do Grima's bidding, nobody so much as flinches in his favor. But the moment his sister Lucina succumbs to her fell blooded nature, the world splits in two, and Owain must take up the Falchion in her place.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Sometimes, if she listened closely to the sound of the wind as it snarled at her back, she could hear a shudder of a low tone that reminded her of what she had lost. Sometimes she thought herself a great fool for letting herself be roped into such childish fancies, but most times she could not help but stop and listen, the hairs on her arms prickling as a cold sense of dread washed over her.

She'd asked Morgan once what he heard when he listened to the wind.

The boy was so very bright, and so very eager to learn all he could to help the war effort. It was unknown to her whether he believed in the cause as wholeheartedly as he pretended to, but if it was truly pretend then he played his part magnificently.

"Lord Grima, of course!" her little brother exclaimed, for he knew no better, and perhaps that was her own fault.

The way of the world was that it was dying in constant, and she could hardly understand why no one understood her motivation. Her people, of both nations, would suffer greatly at the hand of the cruel, wretched world around her. Was it not her job to protect them? To give them a sense of peace?

They would not understand.

No one could understand.

Except Morgan. Morgan always understood.

He heard it too. He felt the voices stirring inside him, a string of dull instruments rising slowly until suddenly they were crashing and singing and bleeding through their bones and eating them up until they were nothing but bags of skin and drumming voices.

The voices were screaming now. Sweet voices, soft voices, low voices, mellifluous and strong and pounding upon her chest, fist after fist after fist of steady blows to her ribs until she felt them crack, and she felt her heart pouring out.

She was on her knees, holding her aching chest as her vision swam with blood and tears, and the wind took hold of her cape and toyed with it lovingly, stray fingers combing through her hair.

_Lucina_, the voices whispered in the wind and in her heart. _Lucina, Lucina_…

Sometimes, if she held her breath, she thought she could feel him in the room, watching her with disappointed eyes as she did what she had to do without objection. Sometimes she thought she could smell him, the scent of sweat and grass and blood, the scent of a ruler who could not be pinned to his palace and of a father who could not stay by his daughter's side.

She never told Morgan, but sometimes the illusions were so powerful that she spoke to them.

_I deserved better_, she'd tell the invisible man.

The wind pressed into her back. No, she realized numbly. It was a foot pressed into her spine. _It's cruel to meet my end at the hands of my last of kin_.

Sunlight glinted on the whetted edge of the mighty, mythical Falchion. The sword of her father and her father's fathers, the sword of the Exalt. She could not quell the pang of jealousy upon seeing what was rightfully hers in the hands of her mindless, spineless oaf of a cousin. Fate was cruel to deliver her at his feet, weakened and defeated, her will crushed and her mind in shambles.

Her exalted cousin leveled the sword with her face, and he did not smile when she glanced at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the folded steel.

"I've thought about this," Owain told her, his voice different from the last she'd heard of it. Often times, when alone, Lucina had closed her eyes and thought she'd heard Owain's lofty little voice calling out to her, battle cries from a long forgotten play, a war of dirt and sticks and biting, scratching, hair pulling combat. She'd thought about it in her darkest of states, and felt as though she had been removed from that memory in order to observe as an outside. She's thought about this. She's terrified of it. "I wanted to speak to you so badly, because I thought… I only let myself fancy a dream where you'd return, listen and understand, that you'd realize how misguided you were and return to us. But I was wrong. I was wrong, I was wrong, I was _wrong_ to have faith in you!"

"Faith," Lucina said, closing her eyes. "Dreams. Love. Honor. They do not exist, Owain. They're a fabrication. A lie. Just like you."

"Oh, shut up," he spat, digging his heel into her spine and kicking her face into the dirt. "I heard your patronizing loud and clear, _Luci_. But you just don't get it. You're the one living a lie. You and Morgan both, you served this great and powerful illusion, like it could somehow save your souls from the devastation Grima's caused! You cannot fathom the pain and suffering you've dealt already, and yet here you are trying to inflict more! You're… you're despicable— you're a _disgrace_!"

She spat, dirt clogging inside her gums, and she felt betrayed in the oddest way. Perhaps she'd been expecting Owain to beg for her to change her ways, to see the light within herself, to challenge her fate.

Instead he leveled the Falchion at the base of her neck, and he whispered a prayer.

* * *

><p>She didn't know when it had begun, exactly, only that she had been very young, and very impressionable, and there had been so much she had not understood. She hardly ever saw her parents, and that had left an odd little bruise on her tender toddler heart. She'd wanted the world, and the world at that time and that place had been nothing but the warmth and comfort of her mother and father's presence. Instead she got soft spoken, reassuring words, scratchy, hasty letters, and empty apologies.<p>

Loved was she, the girl who had everything.

She liked to run and hide from her maids, dare herself to leap from high places and flip off things to practice her coordination. She'd balance herself on banisters, stepping toe to toe with a book wobbling on her head in order to improve her footing, and she knew, she knew, she knew from the very start that she was meant to fight.

She just didn't know what yet.

But little girls didn't need a what, really, just a why.

"For my family!" she'd cry, lunging at a pillow with a makeshift sword in hand, nothing but a baton with the safety bulbs torn off. She pictured herself in the midst of a great battle, whirling left and right and all around, dancing a dance of death and doom and laughing all the way.

Her mother came home abruptly, and Lucina felt as though something had gone terribly wrong.

"Mother," she'd said, hardly really old enough to speak full sentences clearly and eloquently, "is father hurt?"

"What?" Her mother looked angelic, her brow pinching in bright, bright amusement, and her mouth parting sweetly. "Oh! Oh, no, of course not, Lucina. Why would you think such a thing?"

Lucina had stood on her stubby legs, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she resisted the urge to cry. "Because," she said distantly, "you're home."

Her mother looked momentarily crushed, as though everything angelic about her suddenly crumpled up like a bit of paper, and Lucina watched her face closely, unable to tear her eyes away. She thought she might be able to count the lines of emotion there, but Lucina wasn't very good at counting, and she did not want to embarrass herself.

"Oh, Lucina," her mother whispered, bending down on one knee before her and smiling something like an apology. "We've neglected you, haven't we?"

"No, I don't think so," she said, though only because she didn't know what neglected meant.

Her mother looked at her, and in her dark complexion Lucina thought she saw little beady eyes blinking at her from behind the lines and the pores and the skin. Lucina touched her mother's face, the tips of her fingers feeling the smooth flesh and nothing more, and she thought she must be tired.

"You know better," her mother whispered to her, smoothing her hair back. "I know you do. You know why we're always gone, don't you?"

"I know you're fighting," Lucina said, nodding vigorously. "Very hard! Mother, mother… I want to fight too!" She grabbed her mother's hands, feeling the radiating warmth of them tingle through the grooves of her skin. She looked down, and she saw that her mother's hands were bare. She'd never seen her mother without gloves before, had she?

Her mother laughed at her, and she kissed her forehead, and then her hair, and then her nose, and Lucina squealed as she was scooped up into a tight hug, squished in her mother's arms as she was attacked with furious kisses.

"I love you," her mother declared, smooching her cheek and her temple and her ear, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Moth—" She giggled and gasped. "Mama, stop, it tickles, it—!"

They both ended up collapsing against a wall, breathing heavily and giggling in hushed tones, hiding from a passing maid or Frederick or something like that. Frederick had a child recently, which was nice, because that meant a new play thingy, and Lucina loved playing, so it would be nice not to be lonely anymore.

Lucina sat in her mother's lap, her cheek pressed to her breast and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat drumming vividly inside Lucina's head. It sounded like music, the kind that swooped through the city during the nights of celebration on the rare occasion that their exalt returned. Her mother ran her long, slender, nimble fingers through Lucina's silky blue hair, parting it carefully. Lucina turned obediently in order to allow her mother to cast her long blue strands into tight braids. It was exciting, because Lucina hardly ever got to braid her hair. None of the maids did it right.

"I like it when you're home, mother," Lucina said, uncertain on whether her candid words would please her mother or not. She didn't want to burden either of her parents with her desire to be with them, but at the same time she was aching for their company, and could not bear to part with them. She'd fight a thousand battles, slaughter a million foes before she let them be taken away from her again. But of course that was just a child's fantasy, and even young as she was she was not deluded enough to believe her mother would not up and leave again as she always did.

"I like it when I'm home too," her mother said, her agile fingers working fast at the back of Lucina's head. "It means I get to spend time with you, Lucina. And… that makes me happier than you could ever know."

Lucina's heart stuttered like little butterfly wings beating at her ribs, bones shuddering and organs quivering, and she felt a little queasy and dizzy from elation.

"Really?" she breathed. She could not bear to face her mother, not now with her face so shamefully shocked and red and she was simply baffled.

Her mother tied off the end of her hair, and she rubbed the top of Lucina's head of "Look at me, Lucina," she said. The words weren't commanding, but the request was prominent enough that Lucina couldn't figure a way to avoid it.

So she turned in her mother's lap, straddling her and clinging to the deep purple folds of the lining of her cloak. Her mother held her cheek, and Lucina noted that it was rough to the touch, nothing like the squishy hands of the maids who bathed and dressed her. Robin had the hands of a warrior. Calluses were prominent across her palms and scars marred the tender skin of her knuckles, and Lucina felt the scratchiness of her, the unrefined beauty of her mother, the tactician, her mother, the fighter, her mother, the mage. Her mother. Lucina feared looking into her face and seeing a stranger, feared that the weeks and weeks and months and months away would weather her mother's face into that of a completely different person.

"You're so much like you're father," her mother laughed suddenly, her pale hair curling across her cheeks as her head cocked to the side. "It's really amazing. You crave love and attention, but you don't want to make that apparent so you hide behind your pleasantries and your courtesies and your niceties, and you try not to think much of yourself. Am I right?"

Lucina was taken aback. She could hardly understand what her mother was accusing her of— it was an accusation, wasn't it? It was so strange.

"But, mother," she objected, "am I not supposed to be kind and courteous? Is that not what an Exalt should be?"

"Emmeryn hid behind her kindness and her courtesies," her mother murmured, glancing away from Lucina's face. Lucina had, of course, heard of her aunt Emmeryn before this instance, but never with such offhand regard. Everyone treated Emmeryn as though she were as grand as Naga herself, but Robin talked of her as though she was… human. Lucina was shocked. She was enthralled. "Chrom— your father, he does only what he believes Emmeryn would do. But deep down, he is not Emmeryn. Gods, deep down _Emmeryn_ wasn't Emmeryn— do you understand what I'm saying, or am I babbling?" Her mother laughed weakly. "Ah, gods, I'm rambling nonsense to my own daughter."

"No, mother," Lucina said eagerly. "I like it very much when you rumble."

Her mother regarded her with a long, amused gaze. "Ramble," she corrected with bright smile. "But honestly, Lucina, I'm just trying to make a point. I don't want you to be hiding all your life behind a mask of false confidence. You know your father, of course, but I've known him a little longer, and I'm going to tell you a secret."

Lucina sat with bated breath, her eyes wide and shining with excitement. Her mother was stroking her cheek absently, and her knuckles were discolored and scratchy.

"Your father isn't mighty," her mother said. "He isn't great, or incredibly powerful, or even all that wise. Actually, he's kind of a dope, if you ask me."

"I thought pa— father, I mean, father was very smart," Lucina said confusedly. "Is that not true?"

"Ah, he's clever when he needs to be," her mother said, bouncing her head from side to side. "In truth, I do most of his thinking for him."

Lucina's stomach was jittery at this information. "Wow!" she gasped, leaning forward and grasping her mother's rough hands. "You must be the wisest person in all of Ylisse, mother! No!" Lucina bounced excitedly in her mother's lap, her eyes alight at the thought that this amazing person was _her_ mother. "All of the _world_!"

Her mother barked a disbelieving laugh, nodding along as Lucina bounced happily. "Oh, I wouldn't say that…" she said, closing her eyes. "But you wouldn't believe how many times your father has said that to me."

"It's because it's true," Lucina said firmly. "You must be, if father loves and trusts you so, don't you think?"

"I did say he wasn't all that wise," her mother giggled. Lucina giggled as well, and she looked down at her mother's hands, running her fingers over the long scars, which were so much lighter than the rest of her mother's sun-kissed skin. Lucina noticed a strange marking on the back of her mother's right hand, and she drew her fingers across the twinkling eyes that seemed to be more or less branded into her mother's skin.

"What's this?" she asked, turning her mother's hand toward her.

"Oh." Her mother sounded a little strange just then, quiet and dejected which was so very unlike her. Worry prickled inside of her, twisting up inside her stomach and making her whole abdomen ache. "It's just… a mark, I suppose. It's been there as long as I can remember."

"Like my brand," Lucina asked, pointing to her eye. Her mother glanced down at her, nodding slowly, although looking uncertain.

"Something of that nature…" She'd glanced away then, biting her lip nervously. "Listen, Lucina, how would you like to have a playmate?"

Lucina nearly shrieked with delight, but kept herself calm, and let only a small glimmer of her excitement peek through. "Oh, yes," she said. "I'd like that very much."

"Good," her mother breathed, slumping. "That's good. Because you're going to have one. A little sister. Or brother, I don't know which yet. Is that okay with you?"

Lucina stared at her mother confusedly. A sister? Or brother? Well it'd certainly be nice to not be alone anymore. And it wasn't as though she had to worry about another child stealing her parents' attention— their attention was never on her anyway.

"Of course," she replied, blinking wildly. "Do we share a room now? Do I have to move out of my room? I don't really very much want to move out of my room, but if my baby sister or— or brother, or whichever it is, if they want my room, I think that's okay, but can I move my stuff out first?" She chewed her bottom lip anxiously. "You won't give it my stuff, right, mama?"

Robin looked utterly bewildered.

"Lucina," she said, suddenly laughing hysterically. "Lucina, oh gods, you're— you're taking this very well. Chrom owes me a new tome…"

"Mother…?"

"The baby won't be coming for a few months yet," her mother said, lifting Lucina's chin gently. "And it will have its own room and toys and things, don't you fret. I just wanted to be sure you were open to the idea of having a sibling, but it seems we've been worrying for nothing. You're far too mature, you know. You should throw a tantrum. That'd give me some peace of mind."

"That'd be rude…" Lucina shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think I want to do that."

"Ah, it can't be helped, I suppose." Her mother shrugged, and she scooped her into a tight hug. "But at least I have you all to myself for a few months, hm? Your aunt Lissa actually is here as well, so she can teach you how to throw the best of tantrums."

"Aunt Lissa?" Lucina's words were muffled against her mother's collarbone. "Why is she here?"

"Um…" Robin laughed nervously. "The same reason as me, actually. She's going to have a baby too, though she's much farther along than I am. Hard to believe she kept it a secret for so long."

"Why'd she keep it a secret?"

"Oh, for all the reasons I kept mine a secret for a bit," Robin said, grimacing. "It's a hassle to pick up and leave everything so suddenly, and the journey's not pleasant for our… um, conditions, and of course we feel like we're abandoning everyone by returning home for this, but also we just don't feel comfortable leaving everyone behind." She paused, glancing down at Lucina worriedly. "Am I rambling again?"

"Yes, but I like it. I like it when you talk." _I like it when I get to hear your voice_, she thought, though she didn't have the courage to say it aloud.

"Cordelia will be staying here as well," Robin said thoughtfully. "I guess we'll be having babies everywhere for the next few months."

"I like babies," Lucina told her mother eagerly. _I think_.

"You're a baby yourself, you know," her mother laughed, ruffling her hair. "Gods, you've grown…"

"Not really." Lucina sniffed, glowering up at the ceiling. "I'm not as tall as you or father yet, so I can't have grown much at all, really. Is father here as well, mother?"

"Oh!" Robin blinked wildly. "No, I'm sorry, Lucina. He couldn't just bring his entire army with him here, but he couldn't desert them either. So it's just me, Lissa, Lon'qu, and Frederick. And Cordelia soon, if I'm not mistaken."

"That's exciting," Lucina said, though she couldn't help but be disappointed that her father wouldn't be joining them.

"Do you remember your Uncle Lon'qu?" he mother asked her curiously. When Lucina shook her head, her mother giggled. "Well. Come on, then. You'll enjoy this."

She'd never met a grown man so uncomfortable around her before. It was strange.

Her mother's presence in Ylisstol during that time had influenced Lucina more than she could ever say. She'd awaken each morning to the scent of her mother's hair, the scent of dust and tomes and something natural and sweet like honeysuckle. In the night she'd dream of ash and dust, and through the screen of miasma there were eyes glowing bright, bright, bright in the distance, red and wild in the darkness. And when she'd awake, she felt strangely charged, like she'd been struck by lightning and absorbed its power.

Once, she'd been tasked with amusing some of the other children, who had begun filling the castle as a result of the imminent royal birth, so she'd taken them out into the yard and played pretend war. She was the oldest, so she got to pick who fought who. She pitted Noire against Cynthia first out of curiosity, both girls being clumsy and awkward to start with. That match had ended in an escalating number of scrapes and bruises, but Cynthia had laughed it off rather heartily. Noire had begun to cry, which in turn had made Brady start to cry, which in turn made Inigo start to cry, which in turn made Gerome attempt to leave.

"Where are you going?" Lucina asked him, watching him halt. He was smaller than her, but only just barely, and he stood with his eyes cast toward the grass. She didn't want to pry, but he made her curious, and he never spoke, so she couldn't tell if he was rude or simply shy.

When he did not answer, she scowled at him. She snatched the wooden sword from Cynthia's hand and tossed it at his feet.

"Fight me, then!" she cried, tiny and electrified, her mind in a foggy dream and her heart in an age-old song. "Fight me, and I'll let you leave!"

Noire had ceased her weeping, wiping her droopy eyes on her long, dagged sleeves. They'd all quit the crying in order to observe her, which she thought rather odd, but she let herself enjoy the attention.

Gerome took the hilt of the wooden sword in hand, and it seemed to fit him better than it had fit Cynthia. He was bigger, and older, and more adjusted to his limbs. Noire offered out her sword, her round cheeks very pink and her eyes bloodshot as she stared up at Lucina in awe. She was the youngest of the group, not counting Nah, who was too small to be allowed to roam the grounds, and Severa who had only just learned to crawl. Nah could at least speak and comprehend things around her, in spite of her appearance being that of a near infant. Severa was just a grumpy baby who wasn't allowed to play.

Lucina took the sword from Noire, and she twirled it between her fingers, feeling as though her entire short life had been preparing for the moment when she could force an opponent flat onto their face. Gerome seemed like a worthy opponent. After all, he was the closest to her age.

Before they could cross play swords, however, Yarne let out a terrible shriek, and both Lucina and Gerome dropped their faux weapons in shock. When they looked, they saw a small twitching, lurching horde of men inching toward them. _The grounds should be safe_ Lucina thought dazedly, stumbling forward and grabbing Cynthia by both blistered hands, yanking her to her feet.

"We have to go," she said urgently, ushering Cynthia toward Gerome. "Everyone! Back inside!"

"I ain't scared of no soldiers," Kjelle declared stubbornly, "not dead nor alive!"

Lucina, young as she was, had been influential in their little band of righteous play time, and so she rose herself higher, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, looking at Kjelle with a gaze so steady that it made Lucina a little dizzy to hold it.

"You won't be so brave once you become one," Lucina warned. "We have to go inside, Kjelle, we have to go warn everyone! If we don't, imagine, just imagine! We'll be hurting more than helping out here!"

"What are those things, Luci?" Cynthia whispered, tears shining in her eyes.

"Those are Risen," Laurent piped up matter-of-factly. He was the only one still sitting in the grass, and he had a notebook in hand, his eyes trailing from the approaching Risen to his page. "If I'm correct, they are a legion of animated corpses."

"_Huh_?" Inigo spluttered, while the rest of them simply stared at Laurent blankly.

"Yes," Lucina said uncertainly. "Yes, I s'pose so. Anyways, come on!"

Yarne had already bolted, which Lucina didn't quite understand, but she was glad he'd run when she said so. The day was dim, and the Risen were inching closer and closer and closer, their weapons glinting in the sunlight, and Lucina felt compelled to run at them, to beat them all down, to be the hero she'd heard of in glorious tales and songs.

But she didn't. She could hardly move, she was so frightened.

"Lucina," Cynthia whispered urgently, "Luci, Luci! What do we do?"

They all looked to her for guidance.

She had none.

Suddenly they were all screaming, and scattering, and she stood there, feeling utterly lost as she tried to usher them all behind her, but lost sense of direction and time, and felt the darkness of these rotting beasts as they sped up, and without warning, they leapt.

Lucina covered her face with her arms, her heart beating hard and a scream strangled inside her throat.

The reanimated corpse that had moved at her screeched instead, a gurgling hiss of a dying breath, lightning spitting through the air and slicing through its blackened flesh. Lucina peeked at it through her fingers, her mouth opening just enough that she could taste the charred skin, the scent of it blistering and bubbling making her dizzy.

"Lucina," her mother said breathlessly from at her back. "Lucina, gods, are you—?"

She turned to look up at her mother, who was standing with a tome open in one hand, her other hand catching Lucina by the shoulder and yanking her behind her. When Lucina looked around, she saw that all the other children had been caught by at least one of their respective parents, and her being ushered to safety. Lucina was terrified as she listened to the Risen moan and rumble.

She clung to her mother's cloak.

"Mother," she murmured, "we have to run away…"

"I won't," her mother said firmly. "But you must. Go, Lucina."

"I can't," she gasped, shaking her mother's cloak. "Not without you!"

Her mother looked at her, and there was such a brilliant awe in her features that Lucina thought it glowed upon Robin's dark face, glinting with the flash of her eyes, and she stretched out her arm, flicking her wrist up and around, her fingers splaying and the air sputtering as her voice shook nature itself.

"Thoron!" She snapped, something electric pulsating along the edge of her fingers before a grand column of lightning sprouted from her touch, sending the Risen around them into a crisp, jittery mound of charred bones.

Lucina's eyes had followed the zig-zag of light, the spark and the flash and the intoxicating energy of it.

This was the point where Lucina's fate took a different course than she believed it had initially planned.

After her mother and a few others had taken care of the Risen, Lucina had rushed to her side, feeling jittery and uncertain.

"Mother," she said, flushing bright red as she clasped her hands behind her back. "I want to learn magic."

Robin had been so very surprised, and Lucina just did not know if it had initially pleased her to hear these words come from her mouth.

"Oh," her mother said, pushing her pale hair from her brow. She took a breath, and she smiled down at Lucina as best she could. She looked tired, and her warm skin was very pale now, very waxy and wane, bruise-like hollows dipping below the light of her eyes. "Of course, I— of course." Lucina took note of her mother's odd behavior, the excitement in her smile that did not hold inside her gaze. "Come here."

Lucina came, watching her mother kneel and take both her hands in her own, the cowhide gloves smooth and worn as they massaged Lucina's tiny knuckles. Behind Robin, Lucina saw Noire's mother, the dark mage called Tharja, eying them with her shadowy gaze and her ghostly smile. She was holding Noire by the hand, ignoring the child's sniffling as she clung to her lean thigh.

"You must understand," Robin said staring into Lucina's eyes, sweat gleaming on her brow, hair plastered to her cheeks, "that magic is no easy craft to master. It also is very finicky— you may not get the results you wish for, or if you do, you might regret it. It's not like picking up a sword. Magic is very dangerous, and very powerful, and you might decide you don't like it very much."

Lucina considered her words very carefully.

"Mother," she said, squeezing her hands, feeling the remnants of lightning bolts from beneath the smooth leather. "I want to learn magic. I can do it."

And her mother smiled, this one a genuine one, and she pulled her up into her arms, laughing into her hair. "That makes me happy," she whispered, holding her tight.

_Does it?_

Lucina snuggled closer into her mother's arms, inhaling her scent, the sweat and the sweetness, and she felt something tingling inside her.

She felt the power here, and she was enthralled by it.

Her mother had warned her. Magic was not for everyone.

Lucina had not been very good at it.

"You really need to concentrate," her mother encouraged her, leaning over the slim tome that was a designated beginner's book the magic. If Lucina could not produce a fire, she could not master anything remotely as advanced as what her mother dealt with. "Read the words carefully, and try to reach deep. You're willful, Lucina. Magic should come to you."

It _didn't_ come to her. It was apparent by her mother's teaching methods that she'd never had to do this before, and she was using her own experience to teach, but as Lucina sat for hours and hours, pouring over tomes and histories and conduits, she struggled to find her inner mage.

She often snuck away to watch Laurent practice with his own mother. He seemed to grasp everything so well, and she was stuck with ink stained fingers and zero results. Focus? Focus was something she understood, and she was a girl who could withstand most anything, but her patience wore thin, and her desire to learn outweighed her reason.

"Miss Tharja?"

Lucina was still very young, and Tharja was a very intimidating woman, so she wasn't quite sure how exactly to address her. She'd gone directly to her and Noire's room, not particularly interested in subtleties. She waited at the door until it opened, and the willowy woman stood before her with her shadowy eyes and perpetual smirk.

"Princess," she cooed.

Lucina flushed, and she shook her head furiously. "Miss Tharja," she gasped, clasping her hands together. "I wanted to ask—"

"Yes," Tharja said, opening the door wide and stepping aside. Lucina stood confusedly for a moment, her mouth hanging open.

"Wait," she said, "I didn't ask it yet."

"Oh, I already know what you're going to ask." Tharja's smile was poisonous, and even Lucina could tell that this lady wasn't much of a Lady at all, and more like some sinister snake her mother and father had plucked from the desert sands. Still, she was desperate, and Tharja seemed the least likely to tattle. "You want me to teach you magic so you can impress your mother. That's something I can do."

"Really?" Lucina asked eagerly. She quickly entered Tharja's room, bouncing excitedly on her heels. "You can teach me?"

"If I can't, I'm certain no one can." Tharja leaned against her door, staring down her nose at Lucina. "You're very much like her."

Lucina whirled around to face the woman, shocked and a little overjoyed. "My mother?" she gasped, her eyes brightening. "You think I'm like my mother?"

Tharja tilted her head, her long, sleek black hair pooling like roughspun silk, and there was a crease in her dark brow that suggested bemusement. "Is that odd?" Her voice was low and lilting, sweet and chafing. Lucina could not truly fathom this woman. "You have the same… presence about you. Come sit."

Lucina followed her deeper into the dim chamber, which had been changed around to accommodate Tharja's darker tastes. The draperies were black, the candles burned low, and the windows all covered while incense burned in spiraling trails in the corners of the room. It was an overwhelming scent.

She sat down at a round table, folding her hands in her lap as she continued to look around. Her own room was bright, but a little closed off for her safety. This room was dark and massive, but also airy and balanced. It was a nice room regardless.

Tharja retrieved a thick looking purple tome, much like the kind her mother had often moved up to higher shelves so Lucina could not reach them. Its spine was cracked and its leather bound face wrinkled beyond belief, and it coughed up a flume of dust as Tharja dropped it onto the table.

"Firstly," Tharja declared, rolling up her papery thin sleeves, "I want you to promise me that what happens in this room stays in this room. You will not tell your mother, nor your father, nor anyone else in the castle."

Lucina understood that this was strange and scary, but she could not help but be deeply curious about why this was so secretive.

"I was going to ask you the same," she replied earnestly. "I don't want mother to feel as though she's not teaching me right— I don't think that's the problem at all. I just don't think I'm good at the kind of magic she's trying to teach me."

"She's trying to instill the basics in you," Tharja said, resting her palm against the old, withered tome. "You don't need the basics. You need the darker arts."

"Dark magic," Lucina said, nodding. "Yes. But I don't want mother to know I've gone to you."

"Once you learn the old, arcane magicks," Tharja said, "making a fire in the palm of your hand is baby stuff. Just listen to me, my dear little princess. I'll show you exactly how to do it."

Needless to say, Lucina learned how to do it.

It wasn't as hard as she had been expecting, once she stopped clinging to her niceties.

Nobody needed niceties with magic.

Magic was raw. It bled.

Lucina took a small dagger, its hilt of bone and ivory still somehow too big for her chubby hands, and she slid the iron blade over her palm and held it before her tutor. Tharja held her skinny wrist, thumbing the wound as Lucina's eyes welled up with tears, and her lips trembled, and finally she gasped and bit her tongue to contain a sob. Tharja did not smile as she lifted her red soaked thumb to her lips and dragged Lucina's blood down her tongue.

"Not bad." Tharja took the knife, wiping Lucina blood on a towel she'd set out. Noire was never in the room during their training sessions, always sent away when Tharja knew Lucina was going to show up. Apparently Tharja could not force the dark magic out of Noire as she did with Lucina. Of course, Lucina did not mind at all. She had Tharja all to herself, and she was really impressing her mother with her newfound magical prowess. "Now do me."

"W-what…" Lucina's hand was throbbing, and tears glittering on her cheeks, reflecting the candlelight. "What is this going to do…?"

"It's merely a precaution dark mages must take when officially designating a fledgling such as yourself as an apprentice." Tharja sliced her palm open as though it was nothing, and Lucina merely flinched as she offered the bloody hand out to her. "I'm cursing us, in a way."

Cursing?

"Cursing," Lucina whispered taking Tharja's dark hand and watching the blood congeal along the line of the cut. "Hm."

"Hm?" Tharja smiled at her grimly. "Would you like to curse someone, little princess?"

"I'd very much like to curse Gerome," she said, clenching her bloody fist and dragging her thumb along Tharja's open wound. "I'd like him to curse him to smile."

Tharja laughed at her. She had a dark laugh, a four-syllable chuckle that went right through Lucina. She was a little fearful as she opened her mouth and rested her bloody thumb on her tongue. It tasted foul, like something was burning her taste buds clean off, and she had to deal with that fleshy, charred aftertaste.

The door burst open, and Lucina licked the rest of the blood off her thumb, aware that a bit of it was dribbling from the corner of her lip. She stared in horror as her mother came marching in, her head eye and her eyes ablaze, her hand at the hilt of her Levin sword.

"Robin," Tharja purred.

Her mother froze at the sight of them— Lucina garbed in tradition Plegian clothing, black muslin robes and a sheer shawl, blood smeared on her lips and dripping from her hand, and Tharja with a bloody knife and a coy smile. It was an awkward image at best. Robin took in this sight, rolled her shoulders back, and turned to face Tharja calmly.

"I've put up with this long enough," she said in a firm but gentle voice. "No more, Tharja. You will not fill my daughter's head with thoughts of curses and hexes and blood magic."

"She came to me, Robin," Tharja said innocently, setting her knife on the reddened towel. "Your teaching methods, though I'm sure are effective on the average little mage-to-be, had no real effect on our dear little princess. Not to say she isn't talented— she truly is immensely gifted, you know."

"I know," Robin said, this time very coldly.

"I was the very same way," Tharja said. "I never learned the basics of magic, only the dark arts, which allowed me to understand the fundamentals. You can't really blame her, can you?"

"I don't blame her at all," her mother said. Lucina found herself slumping in relief, her heart giving way as all her fears and anxieties were lifted from her shoulders. "I feel responsible for this entire situation, for not giving her the proper attention, and for not seeing this coming. I would have done the same, if in her shoes."

"Mother…" Lucina whispered, tears blinding her.

Her mother turned her attention solely to her. "I understand perfectly how you feel, Lucina," she said. "I understand that you wanted to earn my respect, and to somehow impress me, but you didn't need to go through this sort of length to do so. You already impressed me just by asking me to teach you. The idea that you went to Tharja when you realized you weren't catching on to magic right away, instead of confronting me about your uncertainties, honestly is very disappointing to me. I thought— I'd hoped you'd care more for spending time with me than impressing me."

Her mouth had dropped open, the taste of blood still clinging to her tongue, and the tears were rolling fast and firm, flushing her warm cheeks and making her truly feel the pain in her hand. She was overwhelmed. _No_, she thought, _no, no, mother, no, that's not it at all_. But she had no real explanation. She was so ashamed of herself, and she couldn't even properly articulate how sorry she was.

"I didn't…" Lucina's eyes flashed wildly from her mother to Tharja and then back. "Mother…"

Robin held up her hand. "No more," she said. Lucina didn't really know if she was talking to her or to Tharja, but it didn't matter. They both got the message loud and clear. "I'm thankful to you, Tharja, for… imparting what knowledge you could on Lucina." Her eyes were narrowed dangerously into slits. "However, your teaching methods are not welcome, and undeniably _creepy_. You will not lay a hand on my daughter again, you understand?"

Tharja shrugged. "I've hardly landed a hand on her at all," she said, wiping her hand off on the towel. Robin glowered at her. "Oh, I love that look on you. But honestly, Lucina made herself bleed more than I ever did."

"On your command," Robin snapped. "You told her to hurt herself, and because you are her teacher she listened! She doesn't understand that it isn't okay!"

"A flaw in you, not me," Tharja sighed. "Though it's best if they're obedient, I think. It makes them easier to mold."

"Do you hear yourself, Tharja?" Her mother sounded so distraught, and Lucina was shaking in fear and guilt. She hadn't meant for this to happen. She hadn't meant for her mother to be so angry and sad. "She's a child, not a toy! You cannot simply break her and expect her to be sunshine and smiles once you've maxed her out!"

Tharja looked surprisingly puzzled. "Why would I want her to be sunshine and smiles…?" Tharja blinked rapidly, and tilted her head. "That's stupid."

"Tharja!"

"Robin!" Tharja mimicked, resting her bloody hand on Lucina's head. Lucina's eyes widened as she saw the look that crossed her mother's face. "If you're so angry about our little training time, why don't you teach the girl some dark magic yourself?"

Robin inhaled very sharply, and her face was as hard as sandstone. "Your leave is over, Tharja," she said in a low voice. "Pack your things. You're going back to camp."

"That's fine," Tharja yawned, prying her sticky fingers from Lucina's damp blue hair. "I've been itching to try out some new hexes, and Libra's probably gotten antsy with me gone, gods know."

Her mother stood rigidly, though she did not look surprised at how offhand Tharja's response was. "I may still tell Chrom," she warned, "and he might not be so forgiving."

"I hardly did anything wrong," Tharja said. "She never even cursed anyone. I only gave her the smallest of tastes of what her true power holds."

"And look how much that's tormented her!" Robin waved her hand at Lucina, who shrunk back, her tears still streaming steadily. Quickly, she rubbed her face on her scratchy sleeve, leaving her cheeks itchy and raw.

"She's your daughter," Tharja said vacantly. "How could I turn her away?"

"If you cared about me at all," her mother spat, "you never would have dreamed of hurting her, _because_ she is my daughter."

Tharja looked, for the first time, visibly dismayed at Robin's words. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Lucina," Robin said, holding out her hands. Lucina ran to her side, and nearly broke into sobs as her mother hefted her into her arms, hugging her tightly and kissing her red slick hair. She rubbed her back, small, soothing circles massaging her spine as her mother whirled from Tharja and left the room, kissing her wet cheek and her earlobe, nuzzling her bloody blue hair and smiling into her warm skin.

"I love you," she murmured. "Even though you snuck around and kept secrets from me, I still love you."

"Really…?" Lucina hiccupped, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest. "Even… even if I'm bad?"

"You're not bad, Lucina."

"But I used dark magic," she gasped. "Laurent said that dark magic is bad magic, and bad magic breeds bad people!"

"Laurent, smart as he is, does not know yet the complexities of the world," her mother sighed. "He may very well use dark magic in the future, if this war… ah, never mind that. Anyways, magic doesn't determine what type of person you are. I use dark magic all the time, but I still think I'm a good person."

"Is Tharja not a good person?" Lucina asked confusedly.

Her mother did not answer right away. "Tharja is a troubled person," she said slowly. "But… I think she's good. And Henry— ah, you've never met him, but he's Inigo's father— I think he's also a good person, in spite of how disturbing he can be. He's truly very nice when he's not undeniably creepy as hell."

"Inigo's father?" Lucina tried to wrap her head around it. "Is he anything like Inigo?"

"Oh, gods, no," her mother laughed. "Inigo is so sweet and shy— he's his mother's son, no doubt. The only thing he really inherited from Henry, I think, is his smile."

"Henry smiles lots, then," Lucina stated.

"Lots and lots," her mother murmured. "It's not really all that pleasant, honestly, but he's really quite nice all in all, and he'd probably adore you."

Lucina nodded, burying her face in her mother's neck and inhaling her scent of sweat and ink. Her hand was bleeding freely down Robin's side, dampening her dark coat and even smearing blood across Lucina's chubby thigh. As they moved a little more hurriedly through the hall, they passed by Frederick, who was still on paternity leave. He moved past them, and then promptly froze.

"Robin," he called.

"Damn," she muttered against Lucina's cheek. Lucina peered up at her mother's face, noting she looked a little stricken as she turned around to face her father's right hand man. "Hello, Frederick… I haven't been to see Severa in awhile, is she well?"

Frederick eyed her suspiciously, his gaze trailing between Lucina's disheveled appearance— the blood and the tears and the Plegian garb— to Robin's sweet mask of a smile.

"She's very well," he said, his shoulders squaring. "May I ask what's happened to you both?"

"Ah." Robin glanced at Lucina, and she smoothed her damp hair from her forehead, leaving sticky red trails across her skin. "Just a little hiccup in magic lessons. Nothing too severe."

"Robin, she's bleeding!" Frederick neared them, reaching for Lucina but faltering as his hand came close to her throbbing, crimson fist. "Gods, she looks like she's battled a whole squadron of Risen!"

"Oh, it's not that bad," Robin sighed. She pressed her palm to Lucina's forehead, and a rapid wave of cool energy rolled over her flesh and knitted all around her, attacking the open wound that dug at her palm. "Don't you fret, Freddybear. She's fine."

She lifted her head, feeling lighter and brighter and utterly relieved. She ran her thumb over her healed palm, small circles massaging the creases of her skin. She'd never been healed by magic before. She'd never witnessed this sort of thing, and it intrigued her, enthralled her, held onto her with clingy fingers.

"Be honest. What happened?" Frederick asked, taking a large step toward them. Lucina watched him, and she was reminded of something Tharja had said. _Every man, woman, and child have weakness_, she'd whispered with a coy little smirk. _Your job, princess, is to find it. Exploit it_.

What was Frederick's weakness, she wondered?

"Ran into a little snag with magic training," her mother said, peering down at her. Absently, her mother began to stroke her cheek with her knuckle, wiping away the remnants of Tharja's blood. "It could've happened to anyone. Um, we really need to go, though." Robin shot Frederick a weak little smile. "I've got to clean her up. You understand, I'm sure."

"Of course…" Frederick's eyes moved warily from Robin's face to Lucina. She watched him, her cheek pressed to her mother's shoulder and her eyes droopy from exhaustion. She smiled at him.

This man's weakness was that he loved too much, and trusted too little.

She noted how his eyes narrowed at her suspiciously.

Wary even of a child!

It'd be difficult to curse him.

It'd be mean too.

Very mean.

"Well then," Robin said brightly, "goodnight, Frederick!"

"Yes," he said distantly as her mother turned away, clutching her very close. "Robin, you know I am here not only for my daughter and wife, but for you as well. You can tell me anything."

She paused. Lucina looked at her face, and saw the wideness of her eyes, the shadowy panic of her features, which she schooled so fast, it was mind reeling to a tiny child with little experience in the art of fooling.

"Of course I know that," she laughed, turning only her face to him. "You are one of my closest friends, regardless of your duties to the House of Ylisse. If I had something to tell you, Frederick the Wary, don't you think I would have by now?"

"I'm not so sure."

"_Trust _me, Frederick," Robin pleaded. "Everything is fine. Go back to Cordelia and Severa. Gods know when either of you will be sent out again."

"Not me, milady," Frederick said softly. "I am here indefinitely."

Lucina felt her mother stiffen, her muscles rigid and her smile tight.

"You don't need to take care of me," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm a big girl, and I've been through all this pregnancy nonsense before. Was it Chrom's order? Or your request?"

"It was a mutual agreement."

"Ah," Robin said brightly. "Well, trust in my boys to make me feel safe as can be."

"I beg of you," Frederick sighed, "not to take this the wrong way."

"I understand," her mother said earnestly. "And I really do appreciate it. I just… hate being worried after, that's all. It's so stifling, and you know how capable I am."

"I know," Frederick said. "I know…"

"Then prove it," she said. And she whirled away, Lucina resting at her hip, and her cloak gliding behind her as she strode down the corridor, leaving Frederick to his aching concern. Lucina buried her face in her mother's collarbone to hide a smile. _You're amazing_, she thought in awe. _Mother, you're amazing!_

She was promptly stripped and dumped in a tub, soaps and incense tossed into the water, sweet scents that Lucina realized were of her mother. Beneath the clinging smell of sweat and ink, her mother smelled of sweet grass and daffodils. Lucina swished the water around, smiling as her mother dropped a handful of flower petals over her head. They were pale pink and thin, fluttering slowly against the steam that drifted from the sudsy tub.

"I'm still disappointed in you," Robin admitted as Lucina shook the flowers out of her hair. "But I can't say I'm surprised, or even angry. Honestly, I know I would have done the same."

"You would have?" she asked in awe.

"I'm a perfectionist," her mother laughed, dragging a bar of soap over Lucina's back. "And Tharja isn't all bad, really… she's just a little extreme. What did she make you do?"

"Um…" Lucina had to think. The remnants of the taste, the dull tang of blood, still hung on her tongue. "Well, she tasted some of my blood, and made me… taste hers…" She lowered her head in shame. "I don't know why…"

"It was probably just a binding hex," her mother explained gently. "It can't harm you, unless you attack Tharja or anyone who shares her blood. It's a precaution some dark mages take when accepting an apprentice. To ensure you'll never curse her out of revenge for some way she treated you, or something like that."

"Oh." Lucina was silent as her mother washed the blood from her dark blue hair, tugging at the knots and laughing sheepishly as she apologized. She explained that she didn't know what she was doing. Lucina wondered what she meant.

"These are actually Sumia's flower petals," Robin admitted, dragging a wooden bowl across the ledge of the tub. "She said I could use them. You know Sumia, right?"

"Of course," Lucina said, blinking. "Cynthia's mother. Of course!"

"Of course." Robin smiled. "She's been giving me advice, but… oh, I don't know…"

"What?" Lucina twisted in the bath, water swooshing and petals clinging to her skin. "What is it, mother?"

"It's silly," her mother sighed, dragging her fingers through Lucina's fine hair, wringing it slowly. "I just… feel as though I haven't been fair to you, Lucina."

"What do you mean?" She was at a loss. Her mother was the kindest person she knew. She was just, and she was brave, and she was wise, and she was beautiful, and she was kind. Lucina could not fathom the idea that she felt such a way. "You're always fair!"

Robin poured water over Lucina's head, and she covered her eyes so the soap wouldn't get in them. "I don't know," her mother said. "Like I said, it's silly. Do you feel as though you know me, Lucina?"

"Yes…?" She held her damp fingers to her eyes, darkness spread out all around her. All she heard was her mother's soft voice, and all she felt was water flowing over her head, a warm sensation flowing from her clean hair to her warm skin. She felt as though she were floating. "Of course…"

"I'm glad…" her mother said distantly. "But, Lucina, aren't you ever angry? Aren't you ever sad that your father and I… that we're hardly home?" Her mother pulled her hands from her eyes, and stared at her with a stricken face, with parted lips and dazed eyes. "Don't you blame us? Even just a little?"

"No," Lucina whispered in shock. "Never."

Robin stared. And then, she smiled, and she laughed, and she kissed Lucina's wet forehead, splashing her in the face. She could only yelp, half submerging beneath the suds and the petals and the hazy water, and she splashed her mother back, shrieking with joy.

"Ah!" she cried as her mother dumped the bowlful of flower petals into her palm and blew them into Lucina's face. "Mama!"

Her mother burst into a fit of giggles, kneeling on the floor with her head thrown back and her cheeks flushed with delight. Lucina sat, her skin freckled with little round flower petal stuck very firmly. She puffed out her cheeks, and she noticed as her mother leaned back that beneath her thin beige shirt her tummy had grown significantly in size. She stared vacantly, uncertain as to what that meant.

Some time later, Lucina found herself in the yard dueling with Gerome. This was a thing that happened often enough, for they were the closest in age amongst the young Shepherds, and they were both eager to get better at swordplay. Lucina almost always won, using her size and her strength to her advantage, while Gerome lost his footing more often than not and fell to her tricks every time.

"That—!" Gerome, quiet as he was, squeaked in dismay, a scrape running along his elbow. "That was unfair!"

"You stepped too wide," Lucina retorted, prodding his foot with the point of her wooden sword. "Not my fault. Anyway, get up, let's try again."

He got up without complaint. He was good at doing what he was told.

"Lucina!"

From across the yard, her aunt Lissa shouted and waved her arm. Her newborn son, only a few months old, sat in the crook of her elbow, peering at the sky and tugging at his mother's pigtail. Lucina glanced at Gerome confusedly, and she dropped her play sword, bolting across the yard, dirt coughing up around her as she skidded to a stop, leaving Gerome in the dust. He caught up eventually, and he looked disgruntled and embarrassed.

"Lucina," Lissa gasped, bouncing excitedly. Owain bounced in her arms, smiling his toothless smile and reaching absently for Lucina. He was constantly trying to get at her, to tug at her hair or her lips or the fabric of her gowns. He just loved to tug at people, to get them as close as possible so he could stick his nose in their face and nuzzle them half to death. He was grossly affectionate. Lucina prayed her new sibling would not be such a hassle.

"Aunt Lissa," Lucina said, blowing her hair from her eyes. She'd been keeping up with both her magic training and her swordplay, learning both in order to keep both her parents as proud of her as possible. She was thirsty for praise. "Is something…?" The elated look on Lissa's face told her everything. "… Wrong?"

"The baby's coming!" Lissa cried, clapping her hands excitedly. "Isn't that wonderful?"

That wasn't the word Lucina would use for it.

This meant her mother would leave soon.

It meant that their months of laughter and magic were over.

She took a page from her mother's book, and she smiled big and bright.

"Yes!" she cried, jumping in feigned excitement. "Is it a boy or a girl? Do we know yet?"

"We'll know soon," Lissa laughed, ruffling her hair and smiling big. "Come on, let's go wait."

Lucina began to follow her, and he paused to look back at Gerome. He was stuck with them, it seemed, for his mother and father had both returned to fight. He was the oldest among the younger Shepherds, not counting Lucina. And he was perpetually awkward and lost, following Lucina if only to not be stuck alone in his room all day.

Her mother had explained that the younger Shepherds were welcome in Ylisstol for as long as need be, but it'd been months since the lot of them had arrived, and more and more of them were left by their parents. Lucina was glad for the company, but she wondered if any of them had homes of their own, in all honesty.

She sat obediently outside her mother's room, her knuckles white against her stained training breeches, and her eyes held straight and forward. She listened to her mother's screams, confused and bewildered, because she had not been near her aunt Lissa's room when Owain had been born, and this was a totally new experience for her.

"Why is she screaming…?" she whispered. Gerome sat beside her, watching her with the expression he always wore. Somber, bemused. He was a boy of little words and little emotion, but he was kind, and he was there. Always. She just could not shake him.

"It's just how birth is," Lissa said, smiling down at Lucina and shrugging. "It's really not all bad. Of course, I was a teensy bit out of whack when I gave birth, 'cause I got spiked with some poppy seed before it happened…" Lissa tilted her head toward the ceiling. "Huh. Lon'qu should've been the one drugged, to be honest. He totally fainted when he came into the room." She giggled a little, but her jokes did not make Lucina feel any better.

_She must be in a lot of pain,_ Lucina thought wildly. _So much pain… for what? Some stupid baby?_

Lucina squeezed her eyes shut, and she wished Lissa would let her leave. She didn't want to hear the screaming anymore.

She felt a sudden weight in her lap, and she looked down to see Owain's round face beaming up at her. She felt the urge to shove him off, a tingly little urge to scream at him and cry and run away from all this pain and this bad air.

He reached up with his stubby little fingers, and he touched her hair gingerly.

"Lu…" he mumbled happily. She stared at him, unsure and disbelieving. Even Lissa looked confused, her mouth open and her eyes wide. "Lu-lu!"

"_Huh_?" Lissa looked distraught.

"Lu-lu!" Owain tugged on her hair, and she yelped, wincing. He planted a sloppy kiss on her nose, and he giggled loudly in her air.

Then, without much else to feel happy about, she began to giggle too.

Not too long after, the screaming stopped. She was thankful, and she was relieved, and above all else, she was anxious. She wanted to see her mother. She needed to see her mother. She needed to. She needed to, she needed to, she needed to…

In the back of her mind, there was a dark voice singing.

Drums and hums and thrumming beats.

She felt the world around her. The air, and the breaths, and the trailing silence. She felt the earth turning underfoot. She felt the sky, and she felt the mystic, the magicks, the thrumming of life being pulled and tugged.

She felt something in the shadows. She felt something at her back.

She was led into the room by the hand, her head bowed and her mind in shambles.

_What a weak little thing you are_, her mind hissed at the little squishy blob in her mother's arms.

She was instinctively drawn to it. She wanted to protect it, and she could not say why. The voice in her head was hissing, chanting, cooing at her to hold this child tight.

"Lucina," her mother said, her voice weak and her eyes bright. "Come meet your baby brother."

Brother.

_**Brother**_.

_Hello, brother_, she thought, moving slowly to her mother's side. She smiled at him, her excitement stirring her to excited laughter.

"His name is Morgan," Robin whispered, cradling the boy gently.

"Morgan," Lucina said, tasting the name and finding herself reminded of the trickle of warm, acrid blood down her throat.

She saw his hands, and her smile fell.

On the back of one was the brand of the Exalt. This was unremarkable. Lucina looked upon her brand every day when she glanced in the mirror.

On his other hand, the six eyed marking of the mother that held him, a birthmark that tied him to her, an eerie thing for an eerie boy.

Lucina stood and stared.

_Submit_, a voice hissed in her ear.

She smiled, and took his little hand.

Her envy was dampened by her unyielding loyalty.

"Morgan," she whispered, running her thumb over the dark little brand. "I'm Lucina. I'm your big sister." She brought his dark hand to her lips, and kissed the eyes of the beast. _I'm here to protect you at all costs_.

Such was her fate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When he'd been just a boy, he'd imagined life would be different for him. He imagined he'd fight glorious battles, and win the heart of some beautiful maiden, and _whoosh_! Off into the sunset! Like a tale told over a cradle, like a sweet mother or a sweet cousin whispering sweet stories in his ear. He'd imagined his life to be a song sung by bards in the years to come, but there were no bards and there were no songs.

Only ash and dust.

Even in his childhood he'd noticed something dark in his exalted cousins. Even as a wobbly toddler he'd seen the force that had somehow ensnared Lucina, caught her by the dreams and dug its claws into her tender mind. She'd been such a nice girl, naturally a good and virtuous person, but there was poison inside her, and thus poison she became.

He missed her so dearly it ached to breathe when her name passed through his thoughts.

And Morgan! Morgan was different.

Morgan had not been born lovely and kind.

Morgan had been cursed from birth.

The difference was, Owain realized all at once, that Morgan's brutality was his first nature, while Lucina's was something that had snaked its way into her soul. Morgan bore no hatred for anyone, but he could not fight the darkness that was bound to him. Lucina had lost her heart somewhere, and Owain supposed she had difficulty differentiating between love and hate any longer, but her eyes were still kind and her nature still gentle, even when she was cloaked in bitter darkness and whispered in the night. On that day, Owain recognized the darkness and divinity in both children.

On that day, he saw death take them and choke them and kiss their dark cheeks until they turned pale and cadaverous.

It had begun like any other day.

"_M-o-o-o-o-rgan_!" Owain had caught his little cousin around his middle when he'd attempted to streak past him, swinging the boy around and around as he shrieked. "Tryin' to trick me, eh? Tryin' to trick the great Owain? NAH!" Owain tackled him to the floor as Morgan shrieked and laughed and moaned for Lucina, Lucina, always Lucina.

"Owain?" Nah's tiny face appeared before them, round and plump from her physical age lagging behind those around her. Her auburn hair floated around her cheeks in fluffy tufts, two stubby braids curling about her jaggedly pointed ears. Owain sat sheepishly on top of his small cousin, who was truly only mere months younger than him, and he smiled brightly at the young dragon girl.

"Nah!" he cried her name for real this time, waving her closer. She came, if only to see what he and Morgan were doing. She glanced between them confusedly. She was barely a toddler, and it was hard to say when her mind was advanced to her actual age or if she was more human than she appeared. "What're you doing, lurking around?"

"Nah," Morgan groaned into the floor, "help…"

Nah puffed out her cheeks at Owain, her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. She didn't look especially intimidating, considering her size, but Owain felt guilty by simply sitting under her stare, and he crawled off Morgan and pouted. Morgan sat up and laughed, promptly high fiving Nah and sticking his tongue out at Owain. He was a jolly boy, to be sure, almost as upbeat as Owain. He, like Owain, was fortunate enough to have had his mother around for quite some time in spite of the looming war.

Owain recalled Robin's face, her dark skin and delicate features, silvery hair and sharp eyes. He recalled her witty words and quick remarks, her big smiles and little gestures. And he recalled the darkness in her he could sense hanging about the air around him. He looked at his aunt, and he saw the root of his cousins' troubles. But he never said a thing. He didn't understand what this foreboding feeling was at the time, so he ignored it, brushed it aside as a twitch when it was a warning.

"Ha ha, c'mon!" Owain cried, grabbing Nah and Mogan by their arms. "Let's go eat breakfast! Do manaketes eat people food?"

"Owain," Morgan warned, scowling up at him. Nah merely looked confused. "Don't joke."

Nah, young and tiny as she was, raised her chin very high. "Maybe I'll eat _you_," she told him curtly.

"Do it," Morgan gasped excitedly. "Oh, oh please!"

Owain flushed, and he grimaced. "H-hey now," he said, laughing shakily. "Come on. I could take you two shrimps."

Morgan and Nah glanced at each other.

Owain shrieked in dismay as he was tackled to the floor.

It had been a day like any other.

Lucina appeared as she usually did, a bit mysteriously, a bit irritably, but always with a smile and a kind word or two, always willing to play swords and always willing to advise him in his steps. She was the inevitable heir, the future Exalt, and he saw why every time he looked at her. She had a grace to her steps, a certain deliberate motion to her gait that allowed her to appear confident and refined. She was already a ruler, and she was hardly of a proper age to page a knight, let alone lead a country.

Funny how fate worked.

A day like any other.

Owain had observed his friends as they worked at their various crafts, their spells and their lances and their swords and their shields and their fists and their shiny teeth. He found himself staring at his hand, the brand of the Exalt there for anyone to see plainly, and he clenched and unclenched his fist in hopes that maybe the throbbing would stop.

He felt a shadow over him.

"Boop," his mother giggled, bopping him right on the nose. "Good morning, sunshine."

"Ah!" Owain flushed, his hand clamping over his face. "Ma!"

"Don't you "ma" me, kiddo," his mother said, waggling a finger in his face. "I'll boop you senseless!"

"It's not even morning," he groaned. "It's not even close to morning anymore!"

"Ooh," his mother said sheepishly. "Well, I was sleeping. I hope all of you behaved while I wasn't watching, by the way, or else!"

Owain didn't think it was fair that his mother was basically in charge of all the children of the Shepherds. But it was better than the alternative. No mother, no friends. Just the palace, his vague cousins, and scraps of information fed to them through a trickling machine of contacts over weeks and weeks and months and months. Owain was grateful his mother was at his side and not fighting on the front like Chrom and Robin and the rest.

"Who'd misbehave?" Owain asked innocently. "Not us, mother! Never us!"

His mother pursed her lips at him, her eyes narrowing. "Mhm," she hummed. "Said the same thing back in the day about me and Maribelle. Speaking of! Is Brady around? We should be getting news from the front soon, so he'll doubtless be getting a letter. Actually, round up all the kids, will you? They're all bound to get gifts, or something like that." She sighed loftily. "I wish I got presents."

"Maybe Uncle Chrom will bring home a new staff for you, mother," Owain offered, crawling into her lap.

"Oh!" His mother clasped her hands together excitedly. "Maybe! Now wouldn't that be exciting?"

"We could name it!" Owain grinned at her. "We could name it after his victory, or whatever, wherever! Y'know? Oh, this is great!"

His mother tilted her head. "Calm down," she giggled, smiling at him gently and smoothing back his hair from his forehead. "I'm not actually getting a present. Chrom'd never bring me back something from war, it just…" She shifted uncomfortably, but smiled all the same, shielding him from the pain of it. "It doesn't work that way."

"Then why do we get presents?"

Her fingers slid through his dark hair, and she drew her hand down to his cheek to stroke lightly with her thumb. "You miss your father, don't you, Owain?" she asked him tenderly. He stared at her. "Dearly, right? So dearly it hurts your chest to think of him? To think of how far he is, how dangerous it is where he is, how he might be okay but he might not?"

He didn't understand. But he did. It was confusing, and he just gaped at his mother, blinking at her witlessly, thinking of his father's somber face and hopelessly hoping to see it once more. Dumbly, he nodded.

"Well that's just how your father feels too!" his mother gasped. "Only it's extended to the entirety of the army. They want their loved ones to feel loved even when they're gone. You see?"

"But Uncle Chrom loves you," Owain said distantly.

"It's not the same," his mother sighed. "I belong in that war just as much as he does. If I wasn't here with you, Owain, I'd be there with Chrom and your father. But I'd be thinking of you." She bopped his nose. "Everyday. I'd be thinking of your smile." She blew on his cheeks so his skin vibrated against her lips, and he burst into a fit of giggles. "And your laugh. And your eyes, and stuff like that! Because I love you." She squished him into a hug, and he shrieked against her arms. "My little dummy."

"Mother!" he laughed, his legs kicking at the air.

Suddenly, a maid appeared at the door.

"M'lady," the girl gasped, her eyes wide and her face pallid. "M-m'lady, m-m—"

"Breathe," Lissa advised gently. "What is it? Has something happened?"

The girl shook her head furiously. "I…" She looked uncertain. "Your… your husband has returned, m'lady. And… and Frederick as well."

His mother sat placidly. "Frederick," she repeated. "_And_ Lon'qu? I'd say I got lucky, but wow, not the two boys I'd want in the same room after marching for gods know how long."

The maid stared at his mother with even wider eyes. Lissa smiled at her, and laughed. "I'll get Lucina and Morgan to greet them," she said, lifting Owain off her lap. "Owain, why don't you go along ahead and say hello to your father?"

Owain's little heart was bursting with excitement.

"Yes, mother!"

Owain's relationship with his father had been neither one of comfort nor strain. Certainly his father loved him dearly, and certainly Owain adored his father, but Lon'qu was reserved at best, even with his own son. He did not fancy piggy back rides or cuddle sessions, but he would often sit with Owain for hours on end, watching with his somber silence as his son played and painted and laughed and was bested by his peers and his divine cousins.

Lon'qu was a man of few words, but Owain never once felt unloved by him.

So it was strange to not meet his eye the moment he ran into the entrance hall, less concerned about his disheveled clothing— a wrinkled cotton nightshirt peeking out beneath his coarse doublet, his trousers hiked up and his scabby knees bare for both seasoned warriors to see. Owain was grinning thoughtlessly, his eyes bright and bold and ready for all the brilliant tales to be told by these two men.

"Father!" he cried excitedly, beaming at the man and rocking back on his heels. "Father, you didn't tell us you were returning!"

Both Lon'qu and Frederick were not talkative by nature, but immediately Owain sensed his own folly, and he could feel the grief in the air as both men shot him the most tender, pitying glances. They were both frantic looks, but short and remorseful all the same. Owain noted the bundles in their arms, and he found that he could not breathe with this weight in his chest sliding downward slowly into the pit of his stomach to dissolve and become a permanent load in his rapidly growing body.

When you're born into a world at war, assuming the worst is upon you is commonplace when in times of grave looks and grim silence.

Owain stood, and he understood.

This was no friendly visit.

Behind him, Lucina and Morgan entered the hall, and when he looked at them, he felt nervous and terrified to be in their presence. He thought he might burst into tears.

If someone asked Owain to pin point the day Lucina and Morgan's fates became plainly aligned with a darker purpose, Owain would choose this moment.

"Lucina," Frederick breathed. Behind her was Lissa, whose hands were clasped behind her, her eyes large and disbelieving. "Come here."

Lucina looked onward quietly, her lips thin and her eyes large and her mouth parting as it seemed to settle what was happening. Owain didn't know what to do, because he knew it had to be coming, the screaming and the crying and the fury. But there was nothing from this girl, this tight-lipped cousin of his who squeezed her brother's hand and left him to stand bewildered beside Lissa.

As Lucina approached Frederick, Owain began to cry. He could not explain the tears, for they spilt over his cheeks to fast for him to register them as real, and he could not make a sound of grief, for his breath had left him upon the bitter revelation of his father's purpose here and now.

But Lucina… graceful, careful, mindful Lucina… she did not make her emotions plain.

Frederick towered over her. Owain saw him like a steel mountain, dazed eyes and parted lips, his skin waxy and wan, black hollows dipping beneath his weary eyes. Frederick hugged the bundle in his arms like it was a threadbare security blanket, and finally, with his stoic expression crumpling into wrinkled, ugly despair, he fell to one knee before Lucina.

"Forgive me…" Frederick croaked, his head bowed so low his forehead was practically pressed to the floor. He offered up the bundle to her, a folded white cloak falling away, and the glimmering steel of the legendary Falchion flashed in Owain's eyes.

His mother let out a strangled scream from the door, and when Owain looked at her, her hands were pressed over her mouth and her eyes were shot through with red, glittering with wetness and dazed from her grief.

Owain wanted to run to her, to throw his arms around her and to cry into her stomach, to scream and cry and throw something. But he could not. He was stuck in place, his mind fluttering away to some vacant place to cope with this striking news, and his heart was huddled in a blanket of cotton, the glass daggers of words striking and getting caught in the knitted wall.

And Lucina simply stood. Her dress was thin and woolen, dreary and pale, startlingly simple for a princess. Her face was hidden from Owain, but she was still as the surface of an undisturbed pool while Frederick's entire body trembled, armor clinking in a rhythm with his long, lingering breaths.

"Forgive me," Frederick repeated dimly, his voice even softer now. "I… I could not… I did not…"

Lucina rested her tiny hand on top of Frederick's head, her fingers disappearing in his windswept hair. The moment she touched him, the man went rigid in absolute shock, and Owain dried his eyes, his feet dragging slowly as he moved himself in a small semicircle, observing the wideness of Frederick's eyes and the palpable shock that struck the thick air.

"Don't apologize," Lucina said in a small, level voice. "Please, Frederick. I'm sure you did everything that you could."

Frederick's eyes squeezed closed. And the knight broke into a soft, whispery sob.

Morgan was suddenly at his sister's side, his eyes large and bemused as he looked upon the Falchion and the broken knight.

"That's papa's sword," he said vacantly.

This time, Lucina stiffened, and her eyes moved slowly to Morgan's face. The tiny boy clearly understood what was happening, but he had no sadness to show for it. He merely stood at his sister's side, staring, blinking, his mouth open and his eyes wide. As though this all fascinated him.

"Morgan," Lon'qu said. He did not hold the same shattered demeanor as Frederick, and if he was shaken he did not show it. He too held a bundle, this one smaller and thicker than Frederick's, a dark cloak shot through with deep purple threads, eyes peeking out from the chaotic seams and watching them all with wide stares. He bent low, staring straight into Morgan's eyes and holding out the blanketed sword.

Morgan shook his head.

"I'm not ready for that yet," he gasped, waving his hands. "Mother— she said she'd give it to me when I'm ready. So not yet."

Lon'qu's brow furrowed, and he drew the bundle back. "Your mother is dead," Lon'qu told him curtly. He stuck the sword in Morgan's face. "Take it now."

"I'm not ready yet," Morgan insisted. "Mother said she'd give it to me when I'm ready."

"Morgan," Lucina whispered.

"She did, though," Morgan gasped, his wide eyes flickering wildly between Lon'qu and Lucina. "She said so! I won't take it. Not now, not when I still have so much to learn!"

"Morgan, please," Lon'qu murmured. "She's gone. She… fell to Grima. She lost her life… in an effort to protect you. Don't ignore her sacrifice."

"But she's not dead!" Morgan shook his head. Lucina was watching him with an empty expression. "She didn't… fall to Grima, she…!" Morgan wobbled on his feet, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat, a sob bursting from his mouth. "She…! She didn't…! She's… not…!"

"Morgan." Lucina's voice was sharp and thin. Like a knife piercing the tiny boy's sternum and sending him buckling. She turned from Frederick and tore the blankets away from the sword Lon'qu bore, grasping its hilt and dragging it from its home in Robin's old coat, and the Levin sword gleamed in the streaks of dying sunlight that shuddered through the tall windows. It zig-zagged precariously, a blade of little practical use, but immense, overwhelming power all the same.

"Thank you both," she said, her composure never faltering. Morgan shook, watching her with glittering eyes. The sword was about as big as she was, but she held it in both hands, her lips thin and tight, her eyes watery and alight. "Thank you."

"Lucina," Frederick said faintly, raising his head, his face still pained. "Milady… I want you to know… they fought very bravely. They… fought for you. For you both."

She nodded. The tip of the Levin sword fell to the tile at her feet, and her shoulders slumped. She nodded. She nodded.

"Of course," she whispered. "Of course."

Beside her, Morgan shook his head.

She nodded. She nodded.

Morgan shook his head.

"No…" the boy whispered. "It's not true… it's not true…"

"Thank you." Lucina set the Levin sword down, and she took the dark cloak from Lon'qu's arms. It seemed to weigh heavily in her arms, and she held it with more difficulty than the jagged sword. She took a deep breath, and she threw the coat over Morgan's trembling shoulders. He stared at her, his face streaked with his tears, and he blinked rapidly, breathy sobs thinning out. Lucina bundled him tightly in the dark fabric, wiping his tears with the purplish hem.

"Say thank you, Morgan," Lucina told him curtly. She continued to rub his ruddy cheeks, her own eyes bloodshot, her nose turning faintly pink.

"Thank you," Morgan mumbled, hiccupping weakly.

Owain felt a pair of arms around him, and he was dragged into his mother's firm embrace. She picked him up, burying her face in his hair, and he felt the world tremble as she wept for her lost brother, for her lost sister, for her lost friends and family and faith.

When he closed his eyes, his face buried into Lissa's neck, he could smell her hair, the scent of fresh daisies and morning dew. Her skin was soft, and her tears were warm, and her breath tickled Owain's ear as she rocked him gently.

"No… no… not again, not…" she breathed, tearful and in shambles. "Emm… Emm…"

Owain awoke with a terrible feeling clutching his stomach, the scent of daisies still fresh in his mind, burning his nose and leaving him breathless. His blanket was twisted around his legs, the thin fabric sticking to the insides of his thighs and behind his knees, glued to his skin by sweat and friction. He breathed heavily, and daisies burned his nostrils, daisies and dew, the smell of the morning washing over him. The flap of his tent was open.

He lifted his head, squinting blearily through the fluttering shafts of morning sunlight. He heard the soft scuffing of a whetstone against a blade, and he sat up, tilting his head sullenly at Inigo, who sat cross-legged beside him, sword laid across his lap.

"Morning," Inigo whistled brightly.

"Mor…nin'…?" Owain clamped his hands over his eyes, and he hissed as a splitting pain snapped through his head. "Ah! Ah…" he fell back against his lumpy pillow. The ground was hard and unforgiving. "My head…"

"You got hit with a pretty nasty hex," Inigo said, dragging the stone across the edge of his blade. The sound was scathing inside Owain's pounding head. "Noire lifted it, I think, but you've been out for a day or so. You okay, chief?"

_Chief_, Owain thought numbly. _That's right. I'm their leader_.

He sat up dazedly, holding his head in his hands.

_I'm the Exalt_.

That was as fine a joke as any, wasn't it?

"Fine, I think," he said, running his hands through his hair and smiling weakly at Inigo's beaming face. "Tired for sure. Wait, did you say I've been out for a _day_?"

"Ish?" Inigo blinked, his whetstone resting on the gleaming edge of his sword. "Probably a little more— hey, hey!" He leapt to his feet hastily as Owain fumbled for his breeches. "Take it slow! Honestly, you… you weren't doing all that well. You really _must_ rest. I insist."

_I'll rest when I'm dead, Inigo_, Owain bit back, laughing meagerly at Inigo's attempt at an authorative tone. "Would you like to be Exalt in my stead, then?" Owain asked him eagerly, yanking his breeches up and tightening his belt. Inigo's smile dimmed ever so slightly. "Round everyone up. I need to do a headcheck."

"Is that really necessary?" Inigo asked tentatively, eying Owain in alarm.

"Not if everyone's where they're supposed to be," he said in a teasing voice, though he was truthfully very serious and very anxious. Inigo looked a little uncertain, but he nodded, gathering his sword and throwing one last look at Owain as he pulled on a loose, threadbare undershirt. He'd had a terrible dream about Lucina and Morgan.

They'd been children. As normal as the grass growing green.

Not that it really did anymore.

Owain rubbed his head, his thoughts fumbling over the idea that he'd been hexed. Who had hexed him? When? How? He could not remember a battle, but his muscles were sore and tight. He shrugged his dyed leather jerkin over his shoulders, fastening his scabbard at his hip.

He exited the tent with his head high. It was all he could do not to stumble over his own feet. A hex? What kind of hex?

Inigo was hanging beside a sheepish looking Cynthia, who was smiling at him regardless of the bleak grayish dawn and the overall somber atmosphere. She bounced on her heels before finally snapping, and she squealed as she flung her arms around his shoulders and squeezed him tight.

"You're awake!" she cried into his ear. "You're awake, you're awake!"

"Yeah!" He was shaken up by how relieved she sounded. She was clutching him so tightly that his ribs began to ache. "Yeah, I'm fine, I— I mean, come on. Nothing can stop the Justice Cabal."

"No, sir!" she cried as she released him, her fists clenching firmly before her, her eyes glinting with joy. For just a tiny moment, Owain felt as though the world had shifted back into balance, and he was safe again within the confines of a vivacious persona.

That boy couldn't exist any longer. Not when Owain was Exalt. Not when the world was in shambles.

He glanced over his troop, his eyes moving quick between the familiar faces. He paused, straightening up. Inigo was standing with his eyes averted, a lazy smile sitting awkwardly on his lips. Yarne was watching with a bowed head, and Brady was chewing on his lip as he stared at Owain, his heavy brow shadowing his eyes. Kjelle was sitting on a log beside the fire, polishing her battered armor.

"Where are Noire and Nah?" Owain asked vacantly. He turned about, his boots scuffing against the yellowed grass, and his heart sunk low in his chest at the sliver of a thought of losing those two girls. They were too powerful to let slip away. They were too loved to lose.

"I checked their tents when I woke up," Yarne offered. "They've been gone for awhile."

"Nah's off somewhere, Naga knows where," Brady said, sniffing. "Gods, 'n Noire, well… y'know Noire."

"I know Noire," Owain agreed. _Maybe a little too well_. "And so do you. Do you know if she's with Nah for sure?"

Oh, his worry wasn't because she couldn't handle herself. That wasn't it at all. It was, of course, because Owain _knew_ her. Leaving her to her own musings was worrying, especially if Owain's condition had been as bad as he could assume from his friends' relieved expressions.

"We're not going to search the entirety of the forest just to make sure Noire doesn't decide to burn it down on a whim," Kjelle snapped.

"And yeah, Nah's probably with her!" Inigo gasped. "See? Everything's fine!"

"We don't actually know that…" Yarne whispered. He looked around nervously, his ears twitching.

Owain couldn't lose his patience now. Not when he was banking so much on these people. "What happened to me that I ended up hexed for a day?" he asked them curiously. They glanced at each other. Kjelle pause, her eyes cast forward into nothing, her jaw tightening as her hair fell forward and shadowed her expression.

"Oh." Cynthia's eyes seemed to dim a little, and her fists wilted sadly. "Uh… funny thing…"

"We got our asses royally fucked by the posse of your demon spawn cousins," Kjelle said, setting her armor aside, and clapping her hands on her knees. "You say not to aim to kill, and I get it, but they're not treating us with the same respect! We cannot win while we rely on mercy!"

"My cousins cursed me?" Owain's heart sank further in his chest. But he'd been expecting this. Deep in his soul, he understood his last of kin. They struggled and they bled, just as Owain did. So did they not deserve mercy now, because they had chosen some different path? Owain had seen it coming long ago. He'd seen it in the way Morgan dissected everything around him, picking things apart with words and ginger fingers, prying things open to watch them tick. He'd down it to Owain. He'd done it to Lucina. Hell, he'd done it to himself. Owain knew the monsters that rested inside his cousins, but he could not see either them, truly, as the monsters everyone claimed them to be. "Both?"

"Neither," Kjelle told him coldly.

Owain stood, but nothing was understood, and that haunted him. Morgan cursing him, that was something he could handle. Morgan cursed everyone. He was good at it, even if it made him feel awful. Lucina had a delicate touch when it came to hexing, and her spells were articulate and masterful. Her hex would not be a terrible one to have. But anyone else? Why, Owain would just have to take it personally.

A personal offense that it was not personal. With Morgan and Lucina at least he knew there was passion behind their objective to strike him down. Anyone else was just a pawn.

"Neither," he echoed. What a peculiar thought, that neither of his cousins had struck him. "Who, then?"

"You're asking the wrong questions!" Yarne blurted, taking a meager step forward. Owain stared at him expectantly, and he flushed a little, shaking his head. "The who doesn't matter, does it? It's why. Why would anyone in Lucina's troop want to strike you down?"

"Yarne's right," Cynthia said, blinking rapidly. "No, really, though! Owain, before this we thought that at least some of them were still on our side. But it looks like we were wrong."

"Don't ya hate it when the moles become traitors?" Brady asked, leaning against his staff heavily, his smirk weak and mirthless. He was tired and afraid, and most of all, Owain saw his sadness.

He took a deep breath. "I need to think," he said, rubbing his temples. He glanced at the brand on the back of his hand, and reminded himself he'd need gloves before going anywhere.

Someone from Lucina's crew had attacked him. Hexed and nearly killed him. But who?

He could probably guess.

"Noire and Nah need to return," he murmured. "Ah! Where oh where could they be?"

"Okay, I'm leaving," Kjelle said, clicking her breastplate into place and leaving the rest of her armor near the flickering flames. As she stepped into edge of the forest they'd camped beside, she immediately pivoted and strode back. "Your wish was granted, _my prince_." Her voice was sharp and biting. Owain winced. He didn't understand her anger, but it was Kjelle, and therefore he did not have to. "They've returned."

And without fail, the pallid forms of the two girls shifted from between the trees. Nah was easy to pick out, small and slender and cloaked in red. In the morning light, she was a village child, easily. Noire was different. She was slender and well built, her quiver and bow visible even from the distance. She feigned confidence well enough, but Owain knew her well, and her improved posture did not hide her insecurities.

Kjelle stalked back to them, looking grumpy as ever, and Nah ran as she neared the forest's end, her hood falling back and her braids surfing the air. Noire followed reluctantly. Her eyes met Owain's from beneath the canopy of trees, and he smiled at her wanly. She did not smile back.

"Owain!" Nah hugged him tight, her tiny arms folding around his chest and her small face disappearing in his jerkin. "You're awake…" 

He patted her head affectionately, his fingers getting caught in the burnt umber hue, strands curling around his fingertips in wisps, and her cowlick tickled his skin. She didn't smile at him, she didn't scold him, she didn't say anything more. She simply held onto him, a child in all but age, and he wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry, but he was scared of her tears and of her fears. He was scared that she was scared for him.

The thought of people relying on him thrilled and sickened him.

Nah released him, looking sheepish for letting her feelings go unchecked, and she nodded to him, smoothing out her cloak and then her hair. Inigo appeared at her back, tucking a flower in behind her ear. She glanced at him.

"For the pretty little lady. Dragon." He smiled at her genially. "I thought you'd be off picking flowers, but since you weren't—"

"Quit flirting with her," Kjelle said flatly. "This is not the time for that nonsense."

"Thank you for the flower," Nah said, tugging the small white daisy from her ear.

"See, Kjelle?" Inigo flashed her a broad smile. "Completely innocent!"

"I'm sure."

"I brought breakfast," Noire piped up. She lifted her arm, and they all glanced at the rabbit carcass swinging in her left hand. "U-um… if you guys are hungry…"

"Pass," Yarne muttered, blanching a little at the sight of the blackened, red slick throat of his animal kin. Noire stared at him, and then glanced down at the rabbit.

"Oh… oh no…" she moaned, "I forgot again!"

"It's okay!" Yarne winced, shaking his head. "You guys need to eat, and I… I know food's scarce. Don't worry about it."

It was an uncomfortable situation to say the least, but it happened a lot. Rabbits were easy to find in the woods, and they couldn't go without food to spare Yarne's feelings, no matter how much they wanted to. Owain felt terrible about it, and he'd sworn time and again to Yarne he'd never eat rabbit meat so long as he lived, but it was a hard promise to keep when your belly snarled and groaned at the scent of sizzling, blistering meat.

Owain did it, though. He had to. He was their leader. He kept his promises.

Kjelle had no problems with eating rabbit meat, however, and she took the carcass from Noire and went to go set it over the fire. Nah offered to go pick berries for Yarne, but Owain shook his head.

"Nah, you take over cooking for Kjelle. Cynthia?"

"Right!" She nodded at him firmly, her smile broad but tight. Nah shot an apologetic glance at Yarne, and she went to Kjelle's side, tapping her gently on the arm.

Owain was the leader in name, but Cynthia held a special place at the head of their squad. So when Owain needed to make decisions, he pulled Cynthia aside and tasked her with helping him, shifting responsibility from himself a little— just enough so no one suspected his self-doubt— but also allowing them to have the best support they could have. With Cynthia as a leader, they felt like they couldn't lose, because she felt like she couldn't lose.

And Kjelle, of course, was the most seasoned warrior they had. She knew battle. She knew strategy. She understood what it took to win a war.

Owain envied her resolve.

"You have a plan," Kjelle remarked immediately upon entering Owain's tent. He rubbed his brand, massaging his fingers as he kicked the map from his knapsack. "You've been awake what? Twenty minutes?"

"My brain just cannot possibly rest!" Owain smacked his fist against his palm. "Especially knowing how close Lucina is. We have to get ahead of them if we want to thwart them!"

"We can definitely get ahead of them!" Cynthia's eyes were alight, vivacious and wild. "I know we can do it! Kjelle?"

She was very quiet. She glanced between them, and exhaled sharply through her nose. "Okay, let's just… look for a second." She knelt down, smoothing out their map which had been tacked and tallied more times than they could count. They'd been chased across the globe, and done just as much chasing. "We've only been back in Ylisse a few weeks, but Lucina's gathered enough forces to decimate this forest. We know that now from the last battle."

"Right!" Owain nodded at her firmly, kneeling by her side. "What exactly happened there, again?" She shot him a glower so furious that he swallowed his tongue. Cynthia pressed her lips together, her eyes widening and her smirk evident.

"No matter what we do, they'll always have Risen," Kjelle said. "We'll be fighting tooth and nail regardless of how prepared we are. That's why I say we take one of them out."

"No." Owain peered at the map, and his fingers began to twitch feebly. He held them tightly in his lap, his eyes roving the lands and the seas and the deserts. "We can beat them another way."

"Your optimism will kill us, Owain."

"We need to confront them before we act rashly!" He slammed his palm down on the map. "I will not put our friends to death because it'll lessen our burden, Kjelle. You're smart, and you're brave, but you don't make those decisions. I do."

Kjelle's jaw shifted in her frustration, but otherwise she kept her face utterly blank, her eyes shadows in her skull. She nodded curtly.

It was times like these that Owain wished someone else had been cursed with the brand of the Exalt. That someone else had this burdening birthright. That Lucina had been born of some other mother, some noble woman or knight. Anyone but Grima's human vessel.

Because this brand and this title, this exalted life of his, made him become someone he did not want to be.

The truth was, Kjelle was right.

They should just start picking them off before they did the same.

But could they be capable of such brutality? Truly?

Owain was scared, because he did not know and he did not want to know.

"I think we should capture one of them alive," Cynthia piped up.

Owain turned to her. He imagined it. Catching and holding one of his old, dear friends hostage.

But wasn't it the better option?

"And how do you propose we do that?" Kjelle's voice was venomous. "Do you have a spell that wards off wyverns under your belt? Magical rope or a seal? No, I don't imagine you do."

"It's a suggestion," Cynthia retorted, pursing her lips. "Something that doesn't involve hurting them!"

"If we capture one of them, we'll have to hurt them," Kjelle sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "We need to get information somehow. Is anyone here an expert at torture?"

Owain felt sick. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this.

"We'll do recon," he said, rubbing his branded hand and rising to his feet. "I want to know their next move before they make it. If we catch them by surprise, maybe we can catch one of them by surprise."

"Which one?" Cynthia asked eagerly.

"Morgan," Kjelle said firmly. "He's the glue that holds them together."

"No way," Cynthia gasped, her brow furrowing. "Lucina is the one we need to catch! She's the reason why everything fell apart! Without her, no one would have taken Grima's side!"

"Lucina's only there because of Morgan," Kjelle argued. "We get him, we get her. She'll crumble without him."

Owain hated the sound of that. Lucina? Crumbling? Lucina? She was steadfast and towering, a lone stone pillar in the aftermath of a violent storm. She was not so easily ruffled, and to think that they could truly get to her through Morgan was astounding. Owain didn't like the idea. He didn't like the thought of using Morgan to break that girl, the humble, loving girl of his memory.

But in truth, they'd always been children of Grima.

Owain remembered once scraping his knee while playing pretend, and Lucina had prodded him with her wooden sword, telling him over and over, "Up! Up! You can still fight!"

But he'd been crying and careless, and even then Lucina had not faltered. Her eyes narrowed. She leveled her small, polished oaken sword with his neck. And then, with a shout, she'd dropped it, rubbing her hands furiously. Owain had watched tearfully, unsure of what was happening.

And then Morgan knelt beside him, smiling his sweet, boyish smile, and placing a hand over Owain's scrape. "It's okay," Morgan whispered, eyes bright. "Lucina got a little carried away, but it's okay now. Does it still hurt?"

Bewildered, Owain had shaken his head. When Morgan had pulled his hand away, the scrape was gone, and there was a sense of ease that had spread through him.

He hadn't understood then that they'd both been influenced by their fellblooded roots in different ways. Lucina had pushed him because she was humble, but gluttonous for power. Morgan had hexed her because it was his nature to cause pain, but it was his heart to protect, to care for, to love. They were their mother's children in many ways, but they could not shake the prevalence of their father's nature. It was there. It was always there.

So now he had to decide. Lucina, resolute and binding, the leader of the traitorous band of comrades, or Morgan, kinder and crueler, a child who meant the world to the former Exalt. They were the strongest. They were Grima's spawn, Grima's blood, Grima's loving heirs.

It was awful.

Disgusting.

Owain could not do it, he could not, he could not.

"We take neither," Owain said firmly. "Morgan is too clever and Lucina is too charismatic. They'll escape. Not only that, but those two…" He rubbed his hand irritably. "They don't break. Not without a fight. We need to find the weakest link."

"Severa," Cynthia said immediately.

Kjelle seemed to consider this for a moment. "I can't disagree," she sighed. "Severa's the most temperamental of them all. Also, as smart as she is, she's not as proficient in her skills as Laurent or Gerome."

"Severa." Owain didn't like it. But wasn't it better to capture Severa than Morgan or Lucina? "And… she'll talk, won't she?"

"Not easily," Cynthia snorted. Kjelle shot her a sharp look.

"It's possible," she said, staring into Owain's eyes. "But are you sure? Severa isn't crucial to their team. She's hardly worth anything to any of them, except maybe Lucina, but…" Kjelle rolled her shoulders, and she glowered at the ground. "You know Lucina."

Oh. Did he know Lucina.

"That's precisely why I pick her." Owain understood that by separating Severa from the pack, he'd isolate her from the influence of Grima. She was no dark mage, no dark rider, no lady or knight or tactician of the Fell Dragon. She was merely a girl who had followed her leader into the mouth of hell. What was so wrong with that? "So it's settled then. Severa."

"Severa," Cynthia and Kjelle agreed in somber unison.

This would not end happily.

It could not.

-linebreak

"Remember," he whispered to his friends urgently. "This is just recon. Do not engage. Do not act suspicious. We'll meet back here in an hour."

He hooked his arm around Nah's shoulders, and he started forward down beaten down path. Trees were slightly charred here, but Owain could see greenery sprouting beneath the ash and the husks. There weren't many people around… well, anywhere anymore, so they had to be careful with showing up places in large groups. They'd scout around the small settlements near the forest two people at a time, and then report back. And they had to make sure the info didn't get back to Lucina.

Nah would be Owain's companion for the evening. She went with it, binding her hair in a scarf that covered her ears. They had a rule that prevented Cynthia and Owain, the two leaders, from pairing up, thus why Owain picked Nah. Inigo and Noire were pretending to be siblings, relying on their pale hair and dark, Plegian complexions to sell their lie. Cynthia and Yarne were travelers who'd just passed through the desert. Yarne and Nah had to cover their ears to go into public nowadays, lest they be recognized, so it was the best they could come up with. Brady and Kjelle would be going to the same place, but separately. They just didn't look the types to pair up. It made Brady anxious, but it was just how Kjelle wanted it.

"So," Nah teased him lightly as they came closer to the makeshift row of buildings, "does this make me the queen now?"

"Hmm…" Owain tapped his chin. "Well, if that's what my lady wife wants, I suppose I can grant you that. Nah, the dragon queen!"

She rolled her eyes, smiling timidly. "They'll write songs, I suppose. It's only fitting of such an epic romance!"

Owain laughed, and it felt freeing.

They settled down after that, discussing fundamental strategies and contingency plans. If this went south, depending on the usefulness of the information gathered, Nah would leave Owain in order to meet the others at the rendezvous point. She hated it, of course, but she didn't have a choice. He was still the leader here. He still made the decisions.

"Nice," Nah said, glancing around the dilapidated pub they'd entered. There were only three other people in it, and all of them were drunk off their asses.

"Can't be picky nowadays." He nodded to an empty table. "Sit. We might as well get drinks. Is ale good?"

Nah hummed, adjusting her scarf. "I don't _want_ ale," she sniffed. "I'd love some nice mulled wine."

Owain bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing. He'd told Nah to pretend to be a completely different person. He understood now what he comment on the path had been about. She was getting in character.

He would bet anything he owned that she was pretending to be Severa.

He had to be different too.

So he decided to school his features, giving her a long, somber look.

He turned from her without a word.

That's _probably_ what Gerome would do. Right?

He put two coins on the counter, and the barkeep eyed him suspiciously. "You come from the west?"

Owain toyed with a few retorts, but decided that Gerome would never admit to anything. "We're travelers," he said simply. "Two ales."

And the man scowled, but complied.

This aloof thing sure did work.

Nah sat down, folding her hands on a table while scouting out the place with sharp, careful eyes. She was clever, and she knew how to act in social situations. She knew how to rein her emotions and project false ones. She was so put together, and Owain envied her for her strength and for her stability. He was driven by the fact that he was the only person left in the world who could possibly wield the Falchion.

What drove her?

What held her upright and moved her forward?

He slid her a drink, taking a swift swig of his own and listening in on the men around them. They spoke of the crippled environment, the lack of crops and the drought. Stuff that everyone knew about, and everyone wanted to ignore but couldn't. It was all very boring, very stressing stuff. Owain didn't know what he'd do if he succeeded. Right now he was the ruler of ashes and dust. The world would be the same if Grima were slain.

So why did he bother?

"You two are young," observed a man, a long faced villager whose eyes were gauzy and watery from his alcohol intake. "Ain't that sad? Got no parents, I 'spect. Ain't that sad?"

Owain stared at him, and Nah rested her cheek against her fist while she stared into her cup. Ain't that sad? They didn't even react anymore.

It was just a common thing. They were young, and they were alone. Abandoned by time and fate and blood.

"I don't suppose," Nah murmured, "there are much of us left. Young people, I mean."

_Careful,_ he nearly said. _You might blow our cover_. But it didn't matter, because the man took the bait.

"Not really, 'less you count 'em grimleal kids that've been lurkin' 'round." The man sniffed, and took a gulp from his cup. "Damn near slit my throat earlier for, gods, what'd I even do? Must've looked at their wicked priestess wrongly, or somethin', somethin' of that sort, y'know? You ever gotten a cold knife stuck to your neck, all ready for the cuttin' before? It's a nightmare, really, a real damn nightmare."

Nah glanced at Owain. She pushed her ale toward the man, cocking her head. "How awful," she gasped. "You must've been terribly scared. How'd you get away from them?"

"Just told 'em, I said, "I've done nothin', nothin' to anger Lord Grima!" And the little miss, she asked me if I had any children. So I told her right, I told her 'bout my little Mika, and that wicked wench of Grima's let me go!" He barked a laugh, and Nah turned her face down to her hands. Owain understood her discomfort. Lucina had retained some kindness. That made it so much harder to oppose her.

"Just like that," Owain said. "Huh."

"What?" The man squinted at them. "What is it, huh?"

"You're just lucky, I suppose," Owain sighed. "I've heard awful things about that lot."

Nah stared into her lap. Her persona was slipping. She was thinking of Lucina, to be certain. How unfair it was that they were where they were now.

"Lucky, yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, 'course. Just… sad, I guess. Those kids, they've been all brainwashed up into eating up the grimleal bull."

"Sad…" Nah smoothed out her skirt. "Yes. It's… so very, very sad…"

"Can't blame them," Owain said. "In this world, you take what you can get. The grimleal provides safety."

The man looked utterly appalled. "That 'scuses the whole burnin' the whole wide world to a crisp and killin' our Exalt, then?" He spat at them. "Get outta here!"

Owain resisted the urge to smile. "Fine," he said, grabbing Nah's arm. She hurried to her feet, throwing a glance back at the angry drunkard, and they left before they made any more of a disturbance. Nah clung to his arm with her tiny hands, and he could feel her shaking mildly. He tried to comfort her a little by rubbing her back, but he could tell she was upset.

"That was good," he whispered to her encouragingly, "you did good." 

"Yes."

He didn't know what else to say to her, so he simply led her along the path back into the forest, and thought over this new information. Lucina was very nearby. They'd be lucky to miss her. Owain couldn't imagine what she was planning, but knowing her and Morgan it was likely something that would cripple them if left alone. Great. Another thing to stress about.

The worst thing was the knowledge that Lucina was clinging to her humanity.

This was the awful truth.

This was why he could not permit the killing of these people. These wayward friends.

"We need to take out Gerome," Nah said.

Owain looked at her with flashing eyes, stiffening in alarm because he could not fathom this from her, from this tiny friend who always seemed to know best. No. Not her too. How could she and Kjelle be on the same side with this killing nonsense? Couldn't they just… not?

"What do you mean?" Owain asked her vacantly. "Gerome is… well, certainly he's not the greatest threat there is, or the weakest link. Why Gerome?"

"Middle ground," she replied simply. "Take him out of the equation and there's less to solve. He's in the way."

He wanted to shake her, to scream that she was wrong, wrong, wrong, but she wasn't. Gerome was powerful, but not quite so important as Lucina and Morgan, as removed as Severa. Certainly Laurent shared his place in the middle, but Laurent was… logical. Owain had a feeling that if the tide turned, Laurent would turn with it.

"I see your point," he told her.

"Good…" She pushed her scarf from her hair as her boots scraped the forest floor, blackened twigs crushing underfoot. Her ears twitched, and she perked up considerably. "I hear something."

Owain's hand flew to the hilt of his steel sword, a generic bit of found metal forged while on the move. The Falchion was strapped to his back, wrapped in Chrom's old white cloak. Owain seldom used it unless the situation called for it.

Nah turned about in place, her hair loose and fluffy around her cheeks, tucked beneath her scarf. It was a true mess, wisps falling into her eyes and her bangs blown upward and outwards and all around. Her pupils were dilated, and her mouth fell open.

"Duck!" she cried, tackling Owain to the ash blanketed ground, her tiny body sliding amongst burnt up twigs and smacking very hard against an overturned tree, white dust coughed up all around them, and her face was smeared with charcoal and blood as she lifted it very slowly to stare at the explosion of light that had burst through the air, striking the oxygen they breathed alight with its scarring brightness. The lightning had come from a zig-zagged sword, and its blade gleamed in the darkness, its wielder dropped in a crouch as though just fallen from the sky.

Owain's ears were ringing from the fall and from the shock of the lightning strike. He sat up dizzily, his arm hovering protectively over Nah as he heard the swoop of wings overhead. _Speaking of_, he thought dryly, unbinding the cloak from the sword at his back. He closed his fingers around the hilt of the Falchion.

Lucina's eyes flashed vividly in the darkness, sliding to his face with a fierce caveat igniting the air.

She would kill him if she had the chance.

Goodie.

"Cousin!" Owain exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. And then, when he spotted Nah's dragonstone in her tiny hands, he tore the Falchion from his back and leapt.

She ducked and struck the air, lightning once again beating at the night with twitching, spindly white claws, barely missing him as his feet crashed upon the ground hard and his knee jutted out to catch her in the stomach. She flipped back, and he flung himself sloppily to the side to avoid the cut of her blade. She was too clever with her uneven blade, however, and she readjusted her grip just barely in order to graze his cheek. He breathed in sharply as hot blood spilt down to his jaw, streaming down his neck, and he leveled himself. His feet rocked against the ground as he watched her careful, graceful footing.

His father had always taught him to watch and wait.

So he flipped over her head, knocking her in the face with his forearm and taking her down with him as he tumbled, and she slid, dust and ashes crawling inside his mouth and char sitting heavily, acridly on his tongue.

Nah's voice rang out shrilling as wings beat overhead, shadows whirling and dragons snarling. Owain didn't dare look. He clutched the Falchion, spitting blood and ash onto the ground as he rolled to his feet, eying his agile cousin as she bounced off a tree and caught him off guard with an aerial attack.

He raised the Falchion and stumbled back, blinking wildly as her Levin sword struck the ancient blade, lightning dancing through the air, and he rammed his boot into her stomach, shrieking as the magic hit him hard in the shoulder.

"That was dirty!" he cried. She whirled around, a slashing at him with the tip of the blade, but he managed to duck and dance away, favoring his left side. She stared him down, the whites of her eyes glinting in the darkness. She would not say a word to him. She would not acknowledge him for who he was.

So she drove her sword forward, and Owain sidestepped and parried, the blunt side of the Falchion sparking against the dangerous ridges of the Levin sword. She gritted her teeth as he forced her back with a shove and a step forward. She flicked her wrist around, and he blocked another hit, and another, and sent himself skidding to the forest floor, dust and dirt dancing around him as he kicked her off her feet.

"Speak up!" he snapped. "Speak, Lucina! Tell me what's happening, tell me why you're doing this!"

She struck the air, and the ground sizzled by his side. His shoulder was throbbing, and he dove at her, ducking her sword and whacking her with the hilt of the Falchion. She grunted, for the first time legitimately stunned, and she looked at him wildly.

"Have I made something unclear?" She straightened up. The Levin sword was leveled at his throat. "I serve Lord Grima, Owain. The why is simple. The what is obvious. I am of fellblood, and Grima is my mother and father both."

He stared at her.

He laughed.

"Oh," he gasped, wavering a little. "Oh, gods! Luci, do you hear yourself? Mother and father both? Chrom was my uncle! Robin, my aunt! I knew them well, as did you! You are no child of Grima!"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, diving at him.

Their swords collided, and he yanked at her hair, punching her across the face and flipping back. Above, Nah was snarling and shrieking and screaming.

He raised his head just for a moment, just to see Nah's long pink body coil and launch back as an axe bore down on one of her claws. His mistake. He felt the sinking of the blade, and he lurched away from it, his scream stifled by the white-hot pain of a chunk of his side being torn out. He stumbled, but the Falchion stayed in hand, and his body stayed upright, and he and his cousin stared at one another in horror of what she had done.

She steeled herself immediately.

"Gerome!" she called.

Owain swayed, but he turned his head toward the sky anyway. Just as he caught sight of Gerome's masked face, of Minerva's sleek scales and reptilian body, he saw the flash of teeth and the shrill screech of some poor animal realizing it was dying. Owain blinked as blood rained from the sky, splashing into his hair and running down his chin.

Minerva's throatless corpse was tossed away. Gerome fell from the sky, shrieking his objections and his horror as he attempted to cut Nah open by the belly, but he was too close to the ground, and Nah was already swooping toward Owain. He leapt onto her back as Lucina jumped to catch Gerome from his lamentable freefall.

Owain breathed in deeply, sheathing the Falchion and collapsing against Nah's cool scales. Her long, almost artistically chiseled maw was drenched black in blood.

That was what she had meant by taking out Gerome.

She'd never meant to kill him.

Owain smiled into her cool, smooth back, and he allowed himself some rest as he appreciated this girl now more than ever before. He was not concerned with his wounds. He'd suffered worse, and would suffer worse, and would die someday, but not today. The sound of her sweet, beating wings served as the melody to his lullaby.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Sunlight danced through the yawning cracks, the jagged shapes of open space between the stone columns and parapets, between the crumbled tile and the arched ceiling. Waves of heat danced deliberately, seductively around the shattered altar, catching upon glinting glass and baking metals, drifting madly in time with the song of the long dead. The heavy taste of dust and death clogged his throat. He wanted to suffocate in it.

He peeked out of a gaping hole in one of the walls where Lord Grima's mighty claw had smashed through the bulwark, and he saw the ruins of a city, the perches of buildings and the billows of smoke from a distant new village, a sign of life that made his heart wrench in envy.

A boy could go mad, cooped up in a dilapidated old castle.

He stripped himself of his coat, relishing in the feeling of the thick air against his bare arms, and he tied it around his waist. Well, time to get to work!

He started at the altar. He cleared it off, hefting a boulder of the busted platform, and he hopped right up onto it, cracking his knuckles as he inhaled the must of the old throne room. Nobody came in here. No one dared enter from outside, and no one bothered to check it out. It was Morgan's sanctuary.

He began to hum as he drew into the dust with his forefinger, drifting amongst the shades of shimmering light, the shafts of dancing, wavering heat, and he breathed in his share of death and exhaled with a shifting smile, wavering alongside the walls of heat haze.

He pretended like he didn't care. That he was okay with being left out.

For Lucina's sake, he played the part of an obedient brother beautifully.

She did not know.

He recalled the night she'd pulled him from bed, pressing her finger to her lips, her blue eyes so very stark in the thick darkness, and he'd been so confused. She dressed him hastily in roughspun breeches and a thin cotton shirt, pulling Mother's coat around him and bundling him tight. She'd pulled her hair back and dressed herself in trousers and a boiled leather jerkin, looking half a peasant as her dark blue hair curled in unruly wisps around her forehead and cheeks.

"Luci…" he'd mumbled, tugging on her elbow. "Lucina… what's…?"

"Mother spoke to me," she'd interrupted, sounding breathless and elated, helpless and delighted. She took Morgan by the hands, staring brightly into his eyes, and she shook her head. "We mustn't waste any more time, Morgan. You remember what she said to us, the night… the night Father…"

Morgan had swallowed thickly, tears springing into his eyes and causing her face to swim and blur. Yes, yes, he remembered, yes. She'd come into Morgan's room, sat down on his bed and begun to pet his hair dreamily, her eyes dazed and her lips thin.

"Oh, Morgan…" she'd whispered. He'd been too bewildered and excited to speak. He'd tackled her in a big hug, burying his face in her chest and inhaling the scent of her, so familiar, so… so… ah. It was strange. She didn't… smell like sweat or ink or flowers, she smelled… like nothing. She didn't have a scent. How peculiar!

Lucina had appeared at the door, looking a little alarmed at the sight of their mother, and she'd stayed where she was.

"Oh, Lucina." Their mother reached toward the girl, dark fingers twitching through the air, beckoning. "Come. Come here. Come to your mother."

And Lucina, ever the obedient, had obliged.

She'd taking Lucina by the chin, and she'd said, "Something has happened. You two are my only hope to survive. You understand, don't you? My children. My lovely Lucina. My magnificent Morgan. I need you. I need you. I need you."

They'd stared at her, their beautiful, smiling mother, transfixed and in love, watching as her dark face, her warm cheeks cracked open, like twin fissures in glass, and the air around them had heated up with the twing and the twang of magic, electrified by something above them, something above their souls and above their minds, higher, higher, higher than they could ever dream, and this deep, dark, damaging force had broken their mother's cheeks right open. Two eyes snapped open along the glowing red fissure, sitting upon her cheekbones, wisps of red smoke trailing like tears from the blazing corners, corners, and parallel to the corners of her mouth, two more burning red eyes snapped open, smoke expelling in violent ribbons, dashing through the air and consuming her face.

Morgan was haunted by her scorching gaze, six eyes branded to his back.

"She needs us," Morgan had said the night Lucina had stolen him away. "She needs us!"

"Shh," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "Yes, yes. She needs us. Now. We must go to her."

"Yes," he agreed, eyes burning his flesh, baking his bones. He felt himself turning and baking and turning and baking under the ferocious stare of some beautiful monster that called herself his mother.

And so he let Lucina lead him out the window, a sword on her back and a white cloak on her shoulders.

She'd left the Falchion.

Of course she had.

They both knew she could not wield it. She was not worthy. Nor was he.

Instead, she'd taken the Levin sword. An artifact their mother had plucked from the corpse of the old mad king she'd slain. She was a fierce warrior, to be certain, but when Morgan had been presented with the sword he hadn't known exactly what to do with it. He certainly could hold his own in fencing, and he was handy with a blade, and the magic was palpable whenever he so much grazed its hilt, but he was a creature of mind and tongue, a shadow that lurked in between yellowed pages and faded ink. He lived in runes and consumed the tingling traces of energy left behind by a rapid incantation.

The desert had not been kind to them.

Lucina had not packed them anything. Before entering the desert she'd managed to procure some food for them, but they both knew it would not be enough. By that point, she'd shorn her hair and began pretending to be a boy to avoid suspicion. The people of Ylisse were distraught over their lost Exalt.

She was only twelve. They could not possibly understand what she'd been going through.

To run a whole country?

Lucina was not Emmeryn.

She could not handle the pressure of losing so many so fast with the responsibility of so, so, so many lives on her shoulders. So she did what anyone would do.

She avoided it

Morgan was on her side regardless.

So, the desert. Morgan remembered that he had not yet been accustomed to the heat, the dreaded heat that draped itself across Plegia like a loving mother's embrace. Yes, it was brutal, and yes, it was difficult to breathe, but Morgan had come to appreciate it for its barren beauty, its brilliant brutality. Yes. Morgan loved his waves of heat and scars of sand. He loved his haze and his cloudless sky and the taste of his own sweat on his upper lip whenever he uttered a curse.

He loved the sight of Grima's wings as they beat down the rays of sunlight and crushed the humid air, slicing through it with grating claws and leathery scales.

He loved it all. All the darkness. All the light.

He loved this world and its imperfections.

He loved this life and its horror.

He loved, loved, loved, loved.

He loved and loved and loved and loved.

But he had nothing to show for it.

Because he was defined by his nature, and his nature was Lord Grima.

He loved.

But hate was him, and he was hate, and in the fabrication, the very make up of his cells, he felt it stirring.

He was a living, breathing paradox.

"Morgan."

His mother's voice dragged him from his thoughts, lovely and lilting, a Plegian accent tugging at her every word. He did not know if this was a thing she'd always had, but he had one too now, so he supposed it made sense.

"Mother," he said. She was standing at the edge of the altar. Her fingers danced in the dust. Her dark face floated below his, her expression washed clean of any emotion. He grew weary of that expression. She never showed him her love and kindness anymore.

He knew why, of course, but it was still annoying. Lord Grima could make the extra effort.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked. She moved her fingers slowly across the dusty, dirty altar, inching as close to him as she dared, her nails twitching and tapping along the edge of his makeshift ward. She eyed the runes. Morgan smiled at her brightly.

"I came to practice a bit with these neat old hexes I found," he said. He met her cold stare, and he kept his smile big and bright. "Is it working?"

"You're keeping me out," she whispered, her voice vacant and offended. "Now, why is that? Do you not trust your dear mother any longer?"

"Don't get like that," he laughed. "I was just testing a theory." He offered out his hand, grinning at her broadly. "Let me show you, mother!"

She stared at him. Her fingers twitched and thrummed as they drummed against the crumbling altar. Her eyes grew dark and her lip grew thin, and she pointed her chin.

"What is this about, Morgan?" she asked coldly. He could see the fire in her eyes, the embers crawling beneath the thin veil of skin that held her there, in reality, somehow, someway. Beautiful mother and beautiful father. Beautiful mother who smiled and laughed and teased and played. Beautiful father who did not exist in his foggy memory, clouds gathering around his face and blotting out his mouth and eyes and lips. Beautiful mother. Beautiful father.

Beautiful mother and beautiful father had lost their lives in this very heat soaked throne room.

He let his hand wilt sadly. "Oh, mother," he sighed softly. "Don't sound so offended. I just used a spell to ward off dragons. Isn't that so neat?"

Her lip twitched, and she leaned forward, her silvery hair slipping from her shoulder in long pale strands, pooling like molten metal against her collarbone.

"Remember your place, Morgan," Lord Grima said, their voice clawing at the inside of his mother's dark throat. Angry red fissures sprung vertically along her cheeks, and Morgan sighed. This again.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly, sweeping away the runes. "I love you, mother."

They tilted their head at him, skin cracking at the corner of his mother's lips, and it sizzled away to reveal jagged teeth and blackened gums. They reached for him, long fingers gliding through the air, and for a sad, hopeful moment he thought they might place their hand on his head to pet his hair affectionately as she had done long ago. Instead they dipped their hand, and curled their fingers before him. He understood.

He took Lord Grima's hand and slid off the altar, genuflecting before them and kissing their hot, uneven knuckles. Human skin was tricky to maintain at a constant heat. Sometimes Lord Grima forgot, and his mother's flesh sloughed off. It was okay, though. She could always go back to the way she always looked, beautiful and elusive as the silvery moon in the darkened sky.

He had to be careful. Not even he was safe when Grima got testy.

Oh, he wasn't delusional. He knew that his mother and Lord Grima were essentially different people. But Grima was in his blood, in his heart, in his head, in his words, in his very soul. He'd known from the very beginning that Grima was inside his mother, imbuing themself into her as they did to him. Grima exhaled the air that Morgan inhaled. Life was Grima. Grima was life.

And Grima knew that. Grima knew that Morgan's very skin was theirs to kiss and burn, to stroke or strip or strike.

Grima played Morgan like a fiddle. But at least his music was pleasing to hear.

"Forgive me," Morgan murmured. "I had no intention of truly using it on you. It's for Nah."

"Naga's whelp." Grima's face was dark but their voice was crisp and offhanded. Bored and unimpressed. "You call her a dragon?"

Morgan didn't dare look up into their deep red eyes, the six of them peeling way the layers of Morgans flesh and veins and muscle and bone until his soul was laid bare for his fell dragon mother to see.

"Nah isn't related to Naga, I thought," Morgan said confusedly, still genuflecting, still clutching Lord Grima's slender brown hand.

"All manaketes are the blood of Naga, child." Grima lifted his chin with their index finger, eyes of blood and flame scorching his tender skin, and he felt them crawling inside him, beneath his flesh and squirming in his bloodstream. He felt the heat and the hate and the power, and he was consistently drunk and dazed and dazzled by it, by them, by her. For she, they, he?

They were one.

"I think," Morgan said as they motioned him to rise, sitting themself on the stone altar and their eyes moving along the battered throne room appraisingly, as though admiring their own handiwork. "I think we should capture her, Lord Grima, don't you? It'd be a marvelous advantage, to separate the nonbelievers from their only connection to their weak little god." Even as he spoke, the brand parallel to Grima's marking prickled. It was overwhelming to be promised to both deities. To have the blood of Lord Grima shooting through him, electrifying him and causing him to act with fire in his very breath, but also to have Naga's hand brush his shoulder, cup his cheek, whisper in his ear at every single little solitary fucking decision he made. He understood that his actions were wrong. He had guilt and disgust, and he had a plea that went unheard, because Naga held no power, not in his body, not in his mind, not even in his weak, helpless heart.

He was trapped in this prison of meat and bone, bound by blood to a dragon of darkness and bound by bond to a dragon of divinity. How awful. How disgusting.

He wanted to rip himself in two and feed himself to both just to please their vicious, hungry tongues.

"Why keep the cheap imitation alive?" Grima asked, crossing their legs and folding their hands placidly. "We should just kill her. Messily. Both of us, together. And then we shall eat her."

"Mother," Morgan pleaded. "None of that. I don't eat people."

"You should try it, it's divine."

"Mother, I'm serious."

"As am I." They looked directly into his eyes, all six of them ablaze in sickening delight. "She'd be so soft and tender, Morgan. Like a child, fleshy and sweet, just enough sinew to fill you up. She's much too small for my appetite, but you may very well have your full on her saccharine Nagan flesh and syrupy blood. If you want a taste of her, do it properly, and consume every last bit of her. What's left of Naga now, then, if her very last daughter resides in our belly?"

Morgan's belly felt particularly nauseous.

"You know I'd kill anyone if you asked," he whispered. "But please. I beg you. Not that."

"Weak boy," Lord Grima cooed, reaching out and stroking his cheek with their soft, warm fingertips. "I just want the best for you. A strong body, a strong core. You are not a normal boy. You do not have the luxury of denying your nature."

"It is not within my nature to eat people," Morgan said firmly. "That is, unfortunately, not a quality you passed on to me, Lord Grima. I beg of you, my liege. Let this die."

"Let them all die," Grima scoffed. "Let them all suffer me and die in the fire of my breath and rot in my stomach."

"I'm one of them, mother," he reminded. "So is Lucina."

Grima reached for him, and he came to them, letting them drag their thumb down his cheeks. He felt his skin peel and crack, fire dancing on his nerves as he felt his blood boil beneath the jagged red fissure that had erupted from Lord Grima's feverish touch. He felt his own face crack open at the mental command of the fell dragon, and smoke fell out of his ruptured flesh, billowing from open red eyes like rapid, ceaseless tears, and the pain was unbearable but he had to suffer it because he was part of Grima, body and soul.

"Oh, child," Grima sighed, their breath coiling around him and venomously stinging the inside of his ears. "You are not one of them."

Sometimes he wished they'd just burn him to a crisp already.

He took a step back, recoiling from their touch, and his skin reassembled itself in a quick refolding of flesh, invisible threads binding eyes shut and smoke coughing out of existence. He felt so sick that it made his eyes sting and his throat ache.

To amend for his misstep, he whirled around.

"What a pretty place," he said, whirling around, his mother's coat whooshing at his calves. Lord Grima's face melted back into the visage of his beautiful mother, and she looked around as well, silver hair curling around her smooth brown cheeks. Her eyes were sharp, angular, and alert at all times. "This is where you killed father, isn't it, mother?"

Grima did not reply. She was eying him. Sharp eyed and alert.

"Tell me how that happened," Morgan urged, whirling to face his draconic mother. He leapt atop a fallen pillar, his boots scraping the old white marble as he let himself soak in the falling rays of sunlight, his fingertips dancing toward the radiating heat haze out in the dunes through the gaps in the walls, and he laughed. "Was he shocked? Must have been! You used Thoron, yes? Or, or, was it something more powerful than that? Oh, he must've been so _shocked_!" Morgan threw his head back, and he laughed.

"He amused me," Grima said. "I almost kept him as a pet."

"That's a joke isn't it?" Morgan glanced at her, and she smiled at him. It was a Grima smile. Wicked and poisonous and tempered with the fire of their soul.

"Yes, he was shocked," Grima said. "He told me silly things, that it was not my fault. How peculiar that man was. A wonder two remarkable things such as you and your sister came in part from him and his ilk. At least it wasn't a manakete, I suppose."

"What happened to his body?" he asked, kicking the air idly. "Frederick only brought home his cloak." Lucina still had it. Somewhere.

"Are you truly interested in this, Morgan?" Grima asked, crossing their legs and watching him with a cool, level gaze. "No, I think not. You do not come here to mourn a father who was never there. You come here because it is a place where no one will find you. Where you can let yourself fall back into yourself. Are you so sick of me? Would it please you if you were separate from me?"

"No, Lord Grima," Morgan gasped, whirling to face them. He leapt from the pillar, feeling wobbly on his feet. "Oh, no, no, no! You've got it all wrong!"

"Then ask not about your father," they snapped, sliding from the altar and letting their dainty human feet graze the floor. "He was nothing when he was alive, and he is nothing now. The only use he had was giving me you and your sister. He played his part well, the pawn that he was. Now. No more talk of man and manaketes, they're far beneath us. You are Grima, child. Never forget."

_I am Grima_, Morgan thought, following his mother's puppet of a body through the ruined throne room. _I mustn't forget. She, they, he, me. One_.

His mother and Grima had been the same as he and Grima, he knew, he knew, he knew, yes, that this was true, but it was odd to think that his mother had been in this position of not knowing or understanding which part of him belonged to him and which part of him was solely Grima stirring in his heart.

He wanted nothing more than to rip himself open just to find where Grima was inside of him and cut them out before they infected every last part of him.

He went to his room to think about this and that and them. Grima had no real plan, of course, Grima wasn't a creature of guile. Grima was above that. This was the reason for Morgan's existence, and his mother before him, and his grandfather before her. Grima didn't have the humanity to understand politics. Morgan was different.

He understood that in order to gain the entire world, one must first be loved by it.

Grima wasn't about that, Grima wanted to be feared, for all who opposed them to suffer. Morgan agreed. Fear was a primary aspect in ruling.

However, there was nothing more powerful than a healthy dose of fear and adoration.

At least, until the dragon fire consumed them all, but Morgan never told them about that.

He spent a few hours reading through his books, devising a new strategy or several about how to get around the pesky resistance that his cousin and the old gang had put up. Who'd have known such a small bunch of fighters could do so much damage to Grima's crusade?

Morgan was never allowed to go out into the field. Lucina forbade it, though he could not understand why. He could handle himself. He was Grima's blood just as much as her— more so. He was Grima incarnate, as their mother before him. Her fell blood was no match for his. And yet he was the one stuck in the crumbling castle while she pranced around and plotted to kill their closest friends!

He didn't want to be bitter. He loved Lucina more than he loved life. He loved her dearly, so dearly it made him feel sick to be parted from her, which was why he was so heartbroken whenever she wished him home.

It meant that she did not feel the same.

Typical.

Anyway, Morgan was good at what he did, so there was that. If he could just find a way to disband that damn group— instill the fear of Grima in them, and make them submit— then everything would be fine. He didn't wish them dead. He just wished them on their knees with their heads bowed to the dirt and their lips caked with mud from kissing the ground at Lord Grima's feet. Figuratively and literally.

His door opened, bursting nearly from its hinges as Severa skidded into his room, her ponytails whipping around her face as she searched the piles of tomes to find him. Her eyes were large and her lips were parted, and her face was stricken.

"Morgan!" she kicked a tome away, and toppled over a pile as she pushed toward him, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him to his feet. "Morgan, has Lucina returned?"

He stood dumbly, his feet scraping the ground. "What…?" He peered into her face, and saw she was truly frightened. "Wow, Severa. You look pretty spooked. Did the mission not go as planned?"

She shoved him hard, and he stumbled a bit, quick to catch himself as he smiled at her. "She and Gerome didn't meet us at the checkpoint," she said sharply. "Laurent and I waited until _dawn_, okay? Is she here or not?"

"I haven't seen her…" Morgan felt a prickling fear inside his stomach, but he batted it away. _Lucina is strong_, he reminded himself. _Stronger than all these turncloaks. She's fine. She's fine. Gods, she's fine, right? Right? Right!_

He was terrified.

Severa took a deep breath, clenching her fists at her sides and frowning fiercely. "Listen," she said, pointing to him. "You know Lucina. She would never ditch us out there. She's the one who's so insistent on checkpoints! She wouldn't just leave us."

_That's what you think, Sev_, Morgan thought gleefully. They all loved Lucina so much. Almost as much as Morgan himself. But they had no idea that Lucina would throw them away in a second if need be. That was the Grima in her. Lucina didn't need them like she needed Morgan. They were so disposable. It made him sad.

"There could be a number of explanations," Morgan told her gently. "Calm down. I'm sure Lucina will be back soon. How was the desert? Did you fair okay?"

"Yes, yes, Laurent and I are used to the desert by now," Severa said heatedly, though her myriad of freckles and splotches of red skin suggested otherwise. "We're obviously fine. You're not getting it. Lucina's missing."

"And Gerome," Morgan reminded, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. She shot him a chilly glare, and he laughed. "Oh, calm down. Lucina's fine. Just give her some time to cross the desert. It's not so easy as you say it is."

"You're no help at all!" Severa spat at him, whirling away and marching out the door.

Severa was tricky. She was, undoubtedly, the most skeptic of the turncloaks that had chosen Lucina's side over their own loyalties to the world. Severa had her affections for Lucina, certainly, but Morgan could sense her disappointment and unease at the fact that Lucina's change of faith had not been a ploy to take Grima down from the inside, as they'd all thought when crossing the desert to keep by Lucina's side. Gerome went with Lucina. He swore himself to her side, to protect her back and fight anyone who tried to harm her. Laurent was clever. Grima was winning. And her certainly had an interest in Lucina beyond simple loyalty.

And then there was Severa.

Severa was sly— by far the trickiest of those who had left Ylisse for Plegia. She knew what she wanted. She knew what she believed.

She was not so easily swayed from what she believed to be right. That was the hard part. Severa was very much still a believer of Naga at heart. Not even her love for Lucina could blind her from that truth.

Morgan supposed he'd kill her if he had to. It'd be sad, but he'd do it. He'd never born much love or hatred for Severa. It was sad. So sad.

He sighed. Love and Hatred. Naga and Grima.

Fate had taken the exalted sword and cleaved him in two the moment of his birth.

Morgan picked up an old tome, gripping it in his gloved hands, and he took a deep breath, lowering his forehead to it and inhaling its archaic, leathery scent. Dust tickled his nostrils, and he bit his lip, his gloves squelching against the cover. He hurled the book across the room, and in his rage he felt his left cheek split open, fire coughing into the air through red eyes. He tore the gloves from his hands and scratched at the hollows of his eyelids, hissing softly through his teeth.

_Nonbeliever_, he thought, his own voice bleeding through his mind in thick, venomous motions, a waterfall of haziness pouring through him. It was truly disgusting. He dug his fingernails into his flesh, falling to his knees and rocking to and fro, spitting through his teeth, "I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know…"

On and on and on and on and on. There was a fire inside him, and in his blood it roared and devoured all sense. It rung in his ears and he wished it'd pour out and stain his skin.

"Stop," he moaned, sliding his fingers through his hair, laughter spilling through his jagged teeth, and it tasted metallic. "Oh, stop…"

_Nonbeliever!_

It was an alarm that blared in his head, a bell tolling ceaselessly, and he wanted to tear his polished blue hair from its roots just to make it all fucking stop already.

He fell onto his side, curled up and breathing heavily as he scratched at his brand and his mark, the backs of both his hands rubbed raw by the time his vision swam and his mind fell away into red, red, red.

* * *

><p>When she finally returned to her humanoid form, she was drenched with blood, and she fell to her knees, clutching her hand and holding back tears. Owain was slumped in the dead grass, his body a beaten shadow in the darkness. She took a deep breath, took a deep breath, took a deep breath. Her heart was hammering, thudding wildly, and she thought she might begin to sob erratically out of utter terror for his life and out of sheer pain. Half of the fourth finger on her left hand was missing.<p>

She had no time to staunch the blood. Owain was bleeding far more than she was.

"Come on," she whispered, clutching her dragonstone in her reddened right hand, biting her tongue when it slipped right through her fingers. She was choking trying not to scream and sob. "Come on…" she gripped it tight, dizzy with her agony as her left hand throbbed, and she stumbled to Owain's side, dragging herself and listening to her own uneven breaths as they hit the air like the rapid clang of iron swords clashing. "Come on, Owain. Stay with me."

He did not move. She was distraught. This was her king, her Exalt, her prince. She was supposed to protect him.

She was so useless.

The dragonstone slid from her fingers yet again, and in her crippling pain and crushing despair, she doubled over and emptied her stomach in the dark, dead grass. She expelled all of her discontents there, letting herself retch up her self hatred and self doubts, throwing away her very self while bile clung to her lips and acid stung her tongue. Tears sent skin-colored trails down her deep red cheeks.

She wiped her mouth with her fingerless hand, tasting her own blood and relishing in that.

"_Come on_!" she spat, snatching her dragonstone and kissing it with her bloodied mouth.

She flipped Owain over, ignoring the blinding pain that shot through her hand and arm, and she peered at his face. Blood and dirt marred his complexion. She held her red-slick dragonstone over him, and she closed her eyes. Deep breaths. She could taste blood and vomit sloshing in her mouth.

Focus. Deep breaths.

_I am a dragon_, she thought. _I am a dragon, not some scared little girl!_

She opened her eyes, and she gaped as she was bathed with the soft green glow of her stone, light emanating from its very core and pooling across Owain's stark, bloodied face, gathering in the hole left at his side and in the marks left by Lucina's Levin sword. The light stretched and curled, alive and like breath, whispering softly to her in songs of old.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she laughed in disbelief as the light intensified and billowed like ribbons around her, licking her cheeks of their gashes and her heart of its doubt, and she let it swell and fall into her mouth, sliding soothingly down her throat and relieving her of her despair.

The light seemed to explode for a moment, green blinding her and colliding with her, and she was knocked onto her back as Owain bolted upright, heaving and gasping and coughing.

She felt like she could dance on a cloud.

"Nah…?"

She turned and rested her cheek against the scratchy dead grass, and she laughed in disbelief, laughed and laughed for her missing finger and for his recovery. For Naga's blessing, wherever she was.

"Nah!" Owain crawled hastily to her side, picking her up by the shoulders and turning her gingerly to face him. He supported her head, and then with a gentle hand he wiped her cheeks of her tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry— smile for me, please? Laugh again. Please?"

She did as he asked, and it almost felt real.

"There!" Owain beamed at her, and he crushed her in a hug. She blinked rapidly as she found herself squashed against his chest, and it felt nice to be held after that battle, after nearly losing Owain, after definitely losing her finger. She could feel it. The empty space where it should be. She still wanted to sob, but she couldn't let herself do that, not when she was so close to being okay.

Well, at least, pretending she was okay.

"There we go," Owain whispered into her hair, rubbing small circles into her back. Owain gave the best hugs. Not too tight, like Cynthia, and he was aware of her size so he tried not to actually crush her. She was thankful. He was alive, and she'd done it. "There! You did it! Nah, have I ever told you you're amazing? You're amazing!"

She could not speak. She feared he'd hear the pain in her voice.

He held her for a few minutes longer, maybe just because he needed something to hold, and finally he took a deep breath and released her. "That was a mess," he admitted. "But at least you took out Minerva. Good work, Nah. You gave us a huge advantage."

She smiled up at him, holding her stump of a finger and nodding. He noticed, all to quickly, and he tilted his head.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked, squinting through the darkness. She bit her lip. She struggled to contain her sob. Finally, she pushed her bloodied fingers toward him, turning her face away so she didn't have to look. He took her dainty hand in his own, and she heard the sharp intake of breath that signaled he'd seen her missing finger.

"Oh, gods," he breathed. "Quickly, Nah, use the stone!"

"It doesn't…" she murmured, shaking her head somberly. Her voice was weak. So was she. She was surprised she was able to stay a dragon as long as she did. "Owain, I… I can't, it doesn't work like… like that…"

"Gods…" he exhaled. He tore a knife from his boot and ripped through the seam of his breeches, tossing the blade aside and attacking the fabric with his hands, tearing it apart, loud ripping sounds filling her ears. She stared vacantly, her mouth parted in awe. He began to bind her hand, winding fabric around her wrist and moving it expertly to her finger. "How'd this happen?"

She didn't want to speak, but she didn't want to keep silent either. She sniffled, and she shrugged. "Um…" She had to think. She was high on pain and magic. "Gerome got me. He just sliced it right off. I… I think he was trying to, Owain."

"Guess he got a little more sadistic, huh?" Owain muttered, scratching his head and scowling. "Well, we're gonna make him pay."

"I already killed Minerva," Nah murmured. "Let that be enough, Owain."

He stared at her. He stared, truly, into her eyes and saw how weary she was of this death and doom, and he decidedly distanced himself from the topic.

Nah knew what it was like to be the very last of something old. She felt as though she'd just torn the throat out of one of her last of kin. It hurt her soul.

But it was Minerva or Gerome. She knew who she cared more for.

"Come on," he whispered, snatching his dagger and her dragonstone from the blood soaked grass. He smiled at her, and took her hands. "Let's go. They others are probably worried."

Nah wanted to tell him her fears about what their old friends could be planning, but she didn't. She was tired, and her hand was throbbing terribly. So she climbed onto his back, resting her cheek against his shoulder, and she wished with all her heart that she could save them all from themselves.

Humans were so monstrous. She almost wished she were not one in part.

He carried her back to camp, much to her dismay, and she wondered what they'd do if they were attacked again in the night. It'd be terrible. She wouldn't be able to fight, not in this condition, and gods knew what'd become of her.

"Owain!" It was Inigo who found them, running to them and staring with his pretty eyes and pretty face stark in the darkness. Sometimes Nah thought she wanted to claw his dark, pretty face to ribbons. "Gods! Nah? Owain, what happened, you're— you're covered in blood!"

"You didn't meet at the checkpoint," Kjelle snapped from the fire, stoking it angrily.

Nah buried her face in Owain's back. She wanted to melt away and never face them again. She couldn't help. She couldn't kill Gerome, and that was her flaw. If she had killed him instantly, she could have saved them all a lot of grief. But no. She was not a killer. She ached. Her insides were rotting.

She tried to remember the faces of her foster parents, but even they were faded husks in the blurry stream of her cobwebbed memory. Not even she could clean the mess that was her mind.

"We ran into Lucina and Gerome," Owain said. "Nah killed Minerva and saved my life. You should be asking how she's doing, considering I'm carrying her. Mind your priorities, Kjelle."

And surprisingly, Kjelle looked remorseful. She turned to look at them, and she stared at Nah. Nah stared back.

"Nah?" Yarne asked timidly, looking at her with large eyes. "You're okay, aren't you?"

"Yes," she croaked. She wanted to rip her tongue out. It had betrayed her.

"She's lost a finger," Owain said. "Brady. Where is Brady?"

"I'm here!" Brady appeared, looking between them from beneath his heavy brow, and he stared into Nah's face as well. "Oh. Nah…"

"I'm fine…" she grumbled into Owain's shoulder, hiding her face in shame.

"Come to my tent," Owain told Brady. Nah did not dare look up. She hated this weakness. She hated being the tiniest, the one everyone seemed to want to protect. Aw. Poor little Nah. So tiny. So childlike. She was a fucking dragon!

Had her parents dealt with this same bullshit?

If Kjelle or Noire had come back like this, they certainly wouldn't have that soft, trailing tone. Nah… Nah… how to react when little _Nah_ got hurt. How infuriating!

Owain laid her down on his blanket, smoothing back her bangs and smiling at her genially. She shot him a wan smile back, though she felt like screaming. Weak. Weak. Weak!

"Right," Brady muttered. "Right, 'kay, so let's see the damage."

Owain unwrapped her finger, and she hissed, recoiling from him. He tried to soothe her, hushing her gently, his eyes wide and his lips parted.

"Oh," Brady said faintly.

_Don't say that_, she thought furiously. _Don't say that like there's nothing you can do!_

"Right," he exhaled. Right. There was nothing he could do.

It was just a finger anyway. She had nine more.

"Right…" Brady's voice was thick. "Um. Owain, go and get me a bowl of water. Right now. Go!"

"Ahhh!" Owain leapt to his feet. "Right, right!" He bolted from the tent. Nah watched him go, lifting her head in bemusement and then letting it drop against Owain's pillow. She was tired. She wanted this all to end. She wanted to be able to see a world at rest, a world of peace, a world without Grima. But that was a silly dream, a silly child's fantasy. She was wrong.

She was wrong.

She was so wrong.

"Nah," Brady said, lifting her hand gingerly. "I gotta soak this, get as much blood off as I can. I can try to heal what's left of it. I… I ain't gonna save it, I'm sorry, I… I can't grow back limbs."

"It's fine," she whispered, her voice scratchy in her throat. "If my dragonstone can't heal it, I don't expect you to. It's… it's fine…"

He bit his lip, and he turned his face from her. In her hazy vision, she saw his scarred brow, saw his thuggish face, and she recalled being afraid of him for much of their time together, but she understood that he was soft hearted and absurdly kind. He held her hand, blood drenched, fingerless and all, and he scooted closer.

"Musta been a real scuffle, huh?" He peered at her, and she stared back at him, her brow furrowing. "Who'd ya fight? Gerome?"

"Yeah…"

Brady nodded. "Yeah, he's a real piece of work." Brady pressed his palm carefully to her stump, and she hissed in shock and reared her head back against the pillow. "Shh, shh! I just gotta staunch the blood, 'kay? Right? Nah, I don't wanna hurt you, I swear!"

"I know," she mumbled, tears prickling her eyes. Had she not called herself his little sister once? Her hand was throbbing, but he held it, and he did not balk at the blood, and he kept his hand firmly at the stump. She felt a chilly sense of relief as he healed her, light glimmering through his palm and enveloping her tiny hand. He smiled at her when he withdrew, holding up his bloody palm. She lifted her hand, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she stared at the missing space halfway up her ring finger.

At least it wasn't bleeding anymore.

"Thank you," she murmured. She didn't know if she meant it, but it was something she had to say regardless. He nodded to her, still smiling at her fondly. And she could not help but smile back. He was too kind.

"You'll be tip top in no time," he told her. He set his staff aside, and he leaned toward her. "Nah, promise me somethin' will ya?"

"Of course," she said, blinking up at him. "I owe you, don't I?"

"Don't think of it like that," he muttered, shifting in discomfort. "Just… be careful next time, is all."

"I'm always careful."

"Are you?" Brady studied her with clear disbelief. "You're reckless, y'know. Utterly reckless, and you push yourself too hard. Relax, will ya?"

"Relax…?" She groaned. "It's not as though I went looking for trouble!"

"No," he said slowly. "No, but more often than not you go off to prove that you can do things. With this set back, you're gonna… Ah. Damn, I dunno. I dunno what I'm talkin' about, ignore me, just ignore me."

He wasn't wrong.

She pretended he was, but she knew he wasn't.

She decidedly pushed his advice right out of her mind.

"Owain got skewered by Lucina, by the way," she said, sitting up and flexing her hand. It still hurt, but with a phantom pain. Truly irritating. She looked up at him, and she noticed he was sniffling. "Oh. Brady, no, I'm fine. Honestly, look." She stuck her bloody hand in his face, and she wiggled her remaining fingers. "You did a superb job. I feel so much better already, and that's all thanks to you!"

"I-I'm not crying!" He rubbed at his eyes furiously, but he only managed to smear blood across his cheeks and into his tear ducts. "Ah! Damn it!"

Nah giggled in spite of herself. "There, there," she said. "It's going to be alright. I'm quite better, and honestly, the only thing beyond repair is probably my dress." She grimaced as she peered down at the splotchy white fabric, which was now heavily stained with Owain's blood and her own.

"I can make you a new one," Brady offered. He sniffed, and he shrugged, glancing away from her face. "I mean, only if ya want a new one!"

"That'd be lovely," she whispered. "Thank you, Brady."

Owain returned, and he quickly began to dote on her, which was not something she particularly liked. They soaked her hands in a basin full of water, and then began to wash her face and neck and even her hair to free her from the caked on blood. She let it happen. She had no will to resist.

She listened. They told her she'd be okay, but in truth she didn't know if she believed it. The fact was that she'd screwed up. She'd made a royal mistake in letting her finger be taken. She stripped herself of her soiled dress, and they wrapped her in a spare cloak. They were kind, to be sure. But they wouldn't understand. They couldn't.

They left her to sleep. Owain held her hand, smiling at her broadly, and he promised her, he promised, he said, "You'll be fine. You're the bravest person I know, Nah. You'll be fine." And he left her with that, bundled in a cloak, thoughts of screeches and cries, of blood pulling in her mouth as she spat scales and ribbons of meat from her mighty dragon jaw. She didn't want to call him a liar, but he didn't understand. She wasn't fine. She hadn't been fine for a while now.

Brady stayed a little longer. He sat by her side, his head bowed and his brow furrowed, his scar too prominent in the flickering candlelight, and he looked even more thuggish than usual, concern contorting the contours of his face. She'd turned her face from him to keep him from seeing just how upset she was. She was terrified. They could not know that. They could not know how scared and small she was.

"You're okay," Brady muttered, maybe to himself. "You're gonna be A okay, Nah." He kissed her hair, which was still flecked with blood, and he combed it from her face as she schooled her features into appearing still and sleep-like. He was trying to reassure himself of her condition. That hurt more than it should have.

When he finally left, she turned onto her back to stare at the ceiling of Owain's tent. How ridiculous it was that she was getting special treatment for this. It was only a finger… only a finger… and yet she was beating herself up more than she could possibly say. She'd fucked up. They could not know or understand how much so.

She tugged Owain's blanket up to her chin, tears gathering in her eyes. She was hopeless. Hopeless. There were no gods. There was no fate. Just an infinite string of coincidences flooding the world with disaster, feeding on despair and tainting dreams. Gods were made up. Naga wasn't really divine. Grima wasn't really as powerful as everything assumed. Magic was a crutch.

Nah squeezed her eyes shut, and she kicked the blanket back. She stripped herself of the cloak, and she sat naked, staring at the missing joints on her left hand and gritting her teeth. This was her fault. This was all her fault. What would they do? What chance did they have now? Was she worrying over nothing?

She knelt beside a candle, staring into it and feeling its heat fluttering and expanding around her, like the light of her dragonstone. She folded her hands and held them to her chest, the sound of her own drumming heartbeat too loud for her to stand. She exhaled, and wondered. Naga was light, but Grima was flame. Manaketes had no fire in them. They breathed ice. They were children of the cold, the serene and the silent and the frigid. Naga herself was a distant creature. But Grima was flame, and their children were just the same. Fiery and uncontrollable, vivacious and fluid.

She was terrified of fire, and she was terrified of ice, and she was terrified of dragons, and she was terrified of gods, and she was terrified for herself because she didn't know where she sat on the spectrum of divinities and disasters, what was a coincidence and what was fate.

"Naga," she murmured, squeezed her eyes shut. Tears were hot against her cheeks. "Naga, please."

Naga did not answer. She never did.

It was always the same.

"Naga, please," she begged, her eyes snapping open as she stared into the vacant, flickering flame. "If you can hear me, you must answer me now. I'm afraid… I'm afraid I may…"

She'd once spoken to Morgan, after being taken from her foster home back to the palace, and he remembered he'd asked her a question.

"Nah," he'd said, his eyes as bright and alive as ever. "Do you ever hear Naga?"

She'd been confused. She hardly knew what to say or do when it came to Naga.

"Yes," she'd said vacantly. "Sometimes, yes."

And he'd smiled, scooting closer, and he'd looked around hurriedly. "I'm gonna tell you a secret," he whispered. "I hear voices too."

She'd been alarmed, but so excited, so excited that she could barely stand herself. She'd gasped and grinned and grabbed his hand, too beguiled by him to see what he meant. "You hear Naga?" she'd asked delightedly.

He stared, his mouth parting, and he looked down at her hands around his fingers. And he'd laughed.

"Something like that!"

She let her hands fall to her sides, and she blinked rapidly as the tears kept falling, and the fire blurred and blotted in the bleariness of her vision. Could Naga not hear her? Or was it something else, something worse? Did Naga not care for her any longer? Was that it? Nah had tried so hard, she'd tried her damnedest to be the angelic little follower she was supposed to be, to always be helpful and kind and brave, to be the person Naga would love dearly enough to answer.

"Naga…" she choked. "Please…"

But Naga would not reply. Nah took a breath, and she realized she was sobbing.

No. This was wrong.

She jumped to her feet, kicking her soiled dress up into her arms and tugging it over her head, ignoring how sticky the blood felt against he bare skin. She tugged her hair from beneath her high collar, and she dashed her tears away.

No more.

She threw her red cloak over her shoulders, and she blew out the candle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

He knew in his heart that something was wrong. What scared him was that he did not care. He was deeply and truly distanced from his own foul human emotions, and it made him sick to his stomach to even think about how others must be feeling. He had trouble with feelings in general sometimes.

Love or hate.

Or nothing.

True to form, Morgan was a monster.

No one had come to him when he'd collapsed, of course. No one had checked his vitals or hugged him tightly, promising him solace and hope. No one even knew what had happened. He supposed that was for the best. They might think strangely of him, if they knew how much of Grima truly sat latent within him.

"There you are!" Severa snapped at him when he emerged sleepily from his room. They were all huddled in Lucina's quarters, and on her bed the feeble body of Gerome was laid out. Laurent was leaning over him, one hand on his chest and the other on a great tome. Magic sizzled and snapped like roaring flame over his pointed mage hat. "Gods, did you take a nap? At a time like this? Typical!"

Morgan yawned. _I'm part dragon_, he almost informed her. _I sleep a whole lot_. Instead, he shrugged. "Did I miss something?"

Lucina's face came into view, and he smiled at her broadly. She smiled back, though wanly, until she seemed to remember her place. Her smile disappeared.

"Gerome fell," she replied shortly. She turned, her hair flying around her cheeks. Morgan tried to imagine that. Gerome falling. How funny a sight that would be.

"He fell?" Morgan stifled an amused laugh. "Where on earth from?"

"Minerva." Lucina's voice was clipped, but Morgan could hear her emotion, her rage and disgust and despair. Yes, Lucina was sad. "I almost didn't catch him in time. He hit his head."

"Oh." Morgan tried to sound sympathetic. It was difficult. "And Minerva?"

"Dead…" Gerome's reedy voice drifted through the air, and Morgan glanced at him curiously. His eyes dim, and it was so strange to see them unmasked. He looked like such a child without that awful metal thing covering his pretty, boyish features. Morgan wanted to laugh. And they thought him fragile looking! "Nah… she killed her, she… that little_ beast_, that little—!"

_Nah!_ Morgan's eyes widened a bit in surprise. _Of all people to step up and shed blood!_

"Beast," Severa repeated. "Nah? Honestly, Gerome, remember who we work for. A dragon killed the dragon of a boy who works for the _fell _dragon."

Morgan prickled with irritation from her blatant disrespect. He opened his mouth to reprimand her, but Lucina beat him to it.

"Grima is your god, Severa," she reminded the girl with a hiss, "your Lord. Care to remember that."

Severa's jaw tightened, and Morgan watched her features as she bowed her head, and gave a sharp, curt nod. Yes, she understood. She hated it, but she understood. She was the smart one. Grima was not her god, nor her Lord, but she submitted anyway.

Submit. That's all Morgan asked.

"Nah tore Minerva's throat out," Gerome snapped, sitting upright. Laurent shoved him back down, his hand still flat on his chest.

"None of that," Laurent sighed. "You're far too stimulated. Calm down. We can handle your revenge on Nah. Just calm down."

"You better…" Gerome murmured. Morgan's stomach was all tied up at the thought. Hurting Nah? Honestly, she was the only one who had any sort of spine! She finished off Minerva! At least she was actively trying to win! Couldn't they at the very least admire that? She'd be such an excellent addition. It was unfortunate she was Naga's kin, Naga's voice. Morgan wished she wasn't.

Morgan was struck by something.

"Did you get it, at least?" he asked Gerome eagerly. He'd been dying to get his hands on it.

Gerome stared at him grimly. He lifted a finger feebly and pointed. Morgan glanced. He could hardly contain his excitement as his eyes landed on the scaly, blood-caked claw sitting innocently on Lucina's bedside table. The flesh beneath the reddened scales was pale pink, and Morgan thought of Nah, thought of what she might think of him, and his excitement turned sour.

This conscience thing really sucked.

"All of this," Severa exhaled, "for Nah's _claw_? Are you all mad?"

Laurent whirled to face her, his eyes flashing from beneath the gleam of his spectacles. "You haven't any idea what you say, Severa," he sighed. "Honestly, you might want to take up some tome or another in your spare time. Manaketes are purely magical beings— divine, if you will. Every bit of them, every last tooth and nail and scrap of flesh. Manakete claws are key in a hex that allows one to see into the future and past." He adjusted his glasses, nodding curtly. "Of course, only immensely gifted mages should attempt to do such a thing. Dark mages are best suited for this phenomenon. Luckily for us, Owain does not possess anyone with real proficiency in dark magic."

"Noire," Lucina reminded, sitting on her bed at Gerome's feet. "Do not forget. She is your enemy now, after all."

"Noire is no mage," Laurent replied. "A hunter, yes, but a mage? She hasn't the control!"

"Magic is not about control," Lucina snapped. "Didn't you ever meet Inigo's father? The sorcerer, Henry? He was an utter madman, Laurent. Yet he was a highly skilled mage, one of my father's best and one of my mother's most intriguing followers." She considered her own words for a moment, and she glanced upward. "Well. Follower in a sense."

"Are you two really going to bicker about what magic's about?" Morgan asked, tilting his head at them. "Ah, how boring. Stop trying to define magic. There is no definition for feelings. There's no need. You just feel them. That's it. That's all magic is."

Lucina stared at him, blinking wildly. Laurent seemed unimpressed with Morgan's analysis. Perhaps he expected more from their tactician.

"No one actually cares," Severa said flatly. "Keep your magic. I'll fight with a blade and some cold, hard logic, thanks."

Lucina shot Severa a look. Grima, a being of magic, was in her blood just as much as his. It just happened that he was not only Grima's child, but Grima's vessel. She didn't have that misfortune.

Morgan noticed Gerome's expression. It was clear that he was shattered by the loss of Minerva. Morgan wondered what that was like. He remembered the feeling of isolation when everyone had tried to convince him of his mother's demise. Was that what it was like for Gerome now, then?

"I'd like to speak with Gerome alone," Lucina declared. Morgan felt a pang of jealousy. He hadn't seen Lucina in days, and he'd hoped to be able to speak with her. About Grima. _It's getting worse, it's getting worse, oh, Luci, Lucina, Lucina, Lucina, please, you hear it too, you see it, you feel it, help me. Help me. Help me!_

She was a busy person. She had things to do.

No reason to bother her about such trivial matters such as his sanity. His humanity.

No reason.

Morgan left without complaint.

He was a good brother.

"They had _forever_ to talk alone," Severa muttered indignantly. "Why kick us out just when they finally come back? I don't understand them!"

"I believe they are initiating in what you might call comfort companionship," Laurent stated bluntly.

"Yuck!" Severa's face twisted in absolute disgust. Anger, too. Morgan held back a smirk. He recognized jealousy there as well.

Lucina certainly had her admirers.

He went back to his room, not bothering to comment. They were clearly thinking of other things. He didn't appreciate the fact that he seemed to be the only person there whose mind did not wander to the idea of wooing his sister. She played it well, though.

Well, as in, she used them all and never clung to one in particular. It was just her way. The Grima way.

Morgan wondered why she was so corruptible.

He tossed Nah's claw onto a tome and flopped backwards onto his bed. Gerome had hurt her in retrieving this. What a fool. Didn't he know there were painless ways to take a claw from a dragon? Had it been necessary to take a chunk of her limb with it? He'd been asking for Minerva to be murdered!

It was a real, true struggle to keep his opinions to himself. But he tried his very best! Gerome was just so… distant. Closed off. Morgan could not fathom his feelings, and that made him truly irritated. How was he to know when Gerome stepped out of line when he simply just could not read Gerome? Ugh! It was not fair!

Gerome was only there, simply put, because of Lucina. That was all Morgan knew. It was not enough. At least with Severa and Laurent, Morgan could trust himself to be able to befriend and manipulate them. With Gerome, it was all Lucina.

He stared at his ceiling, imagining all the terrible things they'd done, and he wanted to laugh. It was so simple! The world! It was so awful! The world!

It was so wonderful!

He was dizzy and sick with his own hysterical laughter, bits of his skin crinkling and cracking at the corners of his eyes, stinging from the pain of Grima's influence bleeding through him.

Morgan clapped his hands over his eyes, his giggling breaking apart as he kicked the air, blinking through the haze of red that blinded him. He felt scales rising against the skin of his cheekbones, hot and smooth, and he covered his face and let the laughter consume him.

It was getting worse.

When he'd been young, a child in his mother's arms, a squishy little babe that held Lucina's hand in order to simply move across the room, he'd seen things. In his sister's face, her warm skin split apart, and her large eyes grew redder and redder until they glowed like beacons, and his mother— his beautiful, sweet mother, with her sun-kissed brown face, her bright, tired eyes, her natural grace and natural loveliness— her skin did the same as Lucina's only worse, only she morphed, only eyes sprouted and dispersed on a regular basis, and he never saw an abnormality in that.

It was never truly real. He knew that.

Even now.

His face was fine.

His eyes were not bleeding red from Grima's fire.

It was all just part of the grand scheme.

He hated it.

It was very difficult. To hate things.

He closed his eyes as his breath steadied, and he imagined. He imagined being born to a different mother, someone not as soft and lovely and wicked— ah, no!

_No_, he thought to himself sternly. _No one's more lovely than mother!_

He was sick of his own delusions.

"Nah," he'd said once to a girl he hardly knew, a sweet little manakete girl whose nature was so disgustingly similar to his own that it took too much to not adore her and too much to not want to tenderly pluck her eyes out. "Do you ever hear Naga?"

He'd known her when they'd been very small, and then she'd been taken away. Morgan knew why.

This was what Morgan knew.

Nowi was not Tiki. Nowi was not Nah. Nowi was hardly worthy to be called a dragon at all.

Nowi's blood tasted warm and sweet inside Morgan's mouth.

He dreamt of it sometimes. These were horrors Lord Grima blessed him with at night, kissing his brain and seductively whispering, "Look at all this fun we've had, Morgan. My son. My own blood. Let us do more."

Nowi's blood tasted cold and bitter inside Morgan's mouth.

He saw her through six eyes, her childish face a beacon in the dust and the darkness. His shadow had cast over the ruins of some shaded manor, fire crawling closer and closer from the grounds outside. The labyrinth of rooms had not been much use in a fight against Grima. Grima could just tear the ceiling away and find the little fleshlings cowering, cowering like the squirming worms they were.

Except Chrom's lot did not cower.

Disgusting.

Oh, Morgan did not know all the details, but he knew that there had been more than just Nowi in that ruined mansion, that sad place where families crumbled with the foundation, where children were cracked open like the discolored stone walls. He seethed and sighed over those whose fates were tied to that wretched place.

Nowi was not Tiki. Nowi was not Nah. Nowi was not Naga, in all her pitiful, despicable, sweet-tongued glory.

She was just some little slave girl or another that had outstayed her welcome on Grima's earth.

Morgan thought manaketes all to be beautiful. They had to be. They were not true dragons, but they had this overwhelming presence, this safe, calming demeanor that made him want to bleed himself for them so they might fill what was left of him with their cooling ambience.

Nowi was no different, odd as she was. Morgan barely recalled her from his own memory, from his childhood in the palace, but he did know she'd been excited and brash, perpetually shouting and laughing and winking and bouncing.

In the dust and ash of the crumbling manor, Nowi had looked into Grima's six eyes, her green hair falling in greenish, whitish, reddish ribbons. She'd looked up into Lord Grima's face, and her own, beautiful, youthful, and blood-slick, had contorted with her grand, boisterous laugh. Tears swelling in her eyes, she clutched her glowing stone, that terrible little tool that Naga's whelps loved to use as conduits for the small bit of power they had. Nowi, the laughing, bloody child that she was, had set the dragonstone down.

It had not been her own blood that graced her beautiful little face.

"Hey!" she'd shouted, laughter bleeding, just as the odd little mage boy bled on the floor where she'd left him, her stone staining from the way she'd placed it on the hole in his chest. Even so, even so, Grima saw in their rage that the mage boy, auburn haired and just barely an adult by any human standard, was twitching. "Hey! You! You big dumb chunk of fake! Come here! Come see what a real dragon is!"

To taunt the fell dragon Grima?

She was truly the most vivacious fool they'd ever laid eyes on.

Grima had waited. They saw the dragonstone on the mage boy's chest. Ricken, he was called. He was smart, a boy for sorcery and tricks, a boy of light and feathers, a boy that Grima sensed could have been useful if not for the fact of his wife being a manakete. He was a boy for Naga, certainly, but that was not always the way of the world. Grima stole Naga's tokens all the time. It was one of their most favorite things in the whole wide world to do. Stealing from Naga was intoxicating. But this boy, or man now, perhaps, this Ricken of Ylisse with his blinking eyes and soft, shuddering breaths, his hat soaked through with blood and flecked with ash a few feet from his side, he was to be Naga's to the death. Green light bloomed around him, slithering through him and blanketing him with the light and love of that divine little bitch.

Grima had waited.

They wanted Ricken of Ylisse to see this clearly.

The moment Grima saw light flickering in his eyes, the recognition that stung there as he sat up, as his gaze moved to the meat shield his little wife had made herself into, Grima lunged.

Nowi was no Naga.

Nowi was no Tiki.

Nowi did not even live up to Nah's name, Nah, the last manakete, Nah, the steadfast, the resilient, the clever little serpent. Morgan admired Nah, and Grima knew it, and Grima ached to taste that girl's blood as Grima had tasted her mother's, their jaw snapping and cleaving the girl up so her blood washed down their throat, her death oddly instantaneous and undoubtedly messy as her blood came pouring down onto the mage boy's sweet face.

He might have lived longer if he'd not married the little manakete. He might have grown taller. He might not have seen his sweet little wife throw her life away to buy him some meager time to run like the rest. His face might have gotten longer, his shoulders might have broadened, his jaw might have gotten harder, his legs might have stretched out, and he might have been a mage man to the great dragon instead of a mage boy.

But he was a child to them, regardless, and Grima loved to watch children break.

Nowi's death had been quick. Her blood and flesh draped Grima's mighty maw. It hung fresh in the boy's wide, unblinking eyes, his body half healed, Nowi's dragonstone still digging itself into him to give him life when she now had none. Grima almost wanted to let him go, to see where that went. Morgan had been angry that Grima hadn't.

Because Ricken's death made Nah go away.

In Morgan's dreams, he saw this part vividly. Nowi's sacrifice was something Grima cared little for. It was Ricken that had pleased them.

He'd clutched the little dragon stone the whole time. He'd hardly even screamed.

Morgan licked his lips.

He'd never eat anyone.

He'd never do that.

But Nowi's blood and Ricken's soft, tender flesh, it was something branded into his mind, some taste that he craved but he could not explain why.

Morgan sobbed into his pillow, Ricken's sad eyes faded as his skin was lovingly, lovingly, lovingly pulled away.

Nah had been sent away, fostered by some family that did not appreciate her. Grima felt robbed. They hadn't truly manifested yet within Morgan, but to see that child grow would make killing her so much more satisfactory.

When she'd returned, she'd been changed. More reclusive, more eager to please, and yet, completely immune to Grima's influence. She could have spent days and days on end with Morgan, soaking in his bad vibes, and never once turn her pretty face from Naga's melodic voice. Pitiful. She was truly nothing of value. Grima salivated at the idea of stealing her from Naga's grip, but there was no untangling this one from the divine tree of fate.

Morgan had been terrified.

"Nah," he'd said, imagining how he must look to her. Like some frightened animal caught in a trap. He smiled to make up for it, and he realized that probably made it worse. "Do you ever hear Naga?"

Nah was, Morgan thought, the oddest person to look at. He knew many beautiful people. His sister was, of course, stunning, and Severa had all of the famed Cordelia's beauty, though little of her charm, and Inigo was dashing and coy and lovely of voice and face and step, and Noire, who had all of her mother's curves and most of her coloring but none of her hostility, and Owain, his cousin, his dear, stupid cousin whose eyes were sunlit and whose face was sun-kissed, and who bore a light that could not be snuffed out and… oh, Morgan was certain he could detail the beauty of the whole of the world, but Nah was unexplainable. She was pretty, certainly, but he knew others who were far more striking, and she was smart, yes, but who was she compared to the likes of Laurent? She was strong, but only as a dragon, and even then she was weak in the face of Grima.

But Morgan thought her lovely in a way he simply could not fathom. Grima despised her. Morgan adored her. The trouble was that they were one and the same. So what was Nah to him but a troubling pawn to toss and fawn over?

She'd given him a strange look when he'd asked her. She'd looked at him so oddly, as if he were the bizarre one, as if he were the one handpicked by some dragon deity to bear the weight of the world.

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Morgan tasted Naga in the air around her, and it constantly made him want to scratch his tongue into shreds of lumpy red flesh.

"Yes," she'd said, unsurprisingly undeterred by his question, her voice even and her expression soft. "Sometimes, yes." Morgan wanted to warn her.

He moved closer to her, desperate and hopeless and smiling, his fingers itching to touch her throat. "I'm gonna tell you a secret," he whispered, a bright caveat oozing into his words. She watched him eagerly. Fool. "I hear voices too."

_Run_, he was whispering to her. _Run from me, Nah. Either that, or just strike me down right now. Please, oh please, oh please_…

She gasped. Her auburn hair bounced around her round cheeks as she leapt toward him, gripping his hands, and he felt electrified by her touch, because Naga was in her, and Grima in him, and this was where the world unraveled.

He was absolutely charmed by her. He was absolutely repulsed by her.

Such was his nature.

Such was hers.

"You hear Naga?"

She was darling and devilish, and she knew it well. She watched him, and he watched back. This was eternal. The two of them. Circling and cycling and grasping and gasping and deceiving and destructing till there was nothing left for them but to bleed and repeat.

Something hummed in his chest, clenched in his gut, for he knew that this girl was divine, and that he was demonic.

He must have given her such a look. Him? Hear Naga?

He wished!

"Something like that!" he laughed, holding her tiny hands in his, and thinking that Grima would not be pleased. They were not.

Morgan sniffled, wiping his eyes free from tears and of fire, and he sat up. He hiccupped. It was a trial to serve Lord Grima. But it was worth it. For Grima knew him, and Grima loved him, and that was what was important. He was Grima. Grima was him. Grima was mother. Grima was life.

The longer he thought about it, the more he questioned what living was even worth.

He picked up Nah's claw, touching it gingerly and wondering how that had felt. Being separated from a limb like that. How simple. How awful. How wonderful.

Morgan stood up after his tears dried, and he looked around his room. Books. So many books.

Grima mocked him for being so materialistic.

He kicked away a pile of tomes, kicked and kicked and paused, for he knew he was getting out of control.

It hadn't always been this bad.

Soon they would all begin to notice.

Morgan was not himself, nor had he ever been, but now it was getting worse, for he did not know where he was or who he was or how he was or what he was.

He took the claw and left the room.

"I'm not entirely sure how to work this, Morgan," Laurent admitted when Morgan brought the claw to him. "Lucina is the one who suggested this method of magic. She should be the one to do the incantation and ritual. I honestly would not know where to even begin."

"Hmm…" Morgan leaned over the table. Laurent worked in a laboratory of sorts, tomes lining the walls, jars and tins and boxes full of ingredients needed for specific hexes and curses and things. It was surprisingly bright, a wide window letting in air and light and heat from the desert. Laurent needed that, certainly, considering how hard he worked. Morgan did like him. But also, he hated him. Sad. This was how Morgan felt about mostly everyone. "Severa?"

She made a sharp noise from the back of her throat, and she pushed off the door. "What?" she asked, her voice sharp and her tone impatient.

"Go fetch Lucina and Gerome. We have to start planning."

"You want me to interrupt them?" Severa sounded surprised. But she did not object. "Fine. Okay."

She strode away, and Morgan smiled to himself. He looked up at Laurent, who stood with his eyes lowered toward the claw.

"Don't take it so personally," Morgan told him gently. "Lucina certainly loves you."

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about, Morgan." Laurent adjusted his glasses, his eyes moving from the claw to his tome. "We should be able to get a few premonitions from this, if what Lucina says is true."

"It is." Morgan nodded firmly. "Dragon claws are immensely powerful."

"Then, may I ask?" Laurent studied Morgan curiously. "Why not use Lord Grima?"

It was an honest, precocious question. Grima did not object to the curiosity of men.

"Oh, that's simple!" Morgan bounced excitedly in place. "Lord Grima is sacred, we can't defile them with our man made sorcery. Besides, why dare approach Grima when we have our own little dragon lurking on our tails? Could you imagine capturing her alive? An infinite supply of these—" Morgan gestured to Nah's claw. "—Well, and we'll be set to win the war!"

"That's supposing we can interpret the future correctly," Laurent reminded. "As well as the past. Do not forget, that is also within this magic's capabilities."

"We don't need to look at the past," Morgan said stiffly. "Who needs the past? We have to look to the future! That's where Grima is."

"Grima was in the past as well," Laurent said. "Lest you forget, Grima is past, present, and future."

"I could never forget that," Morgan murmured. "I just mean, why dredge up the awfulness of the war past? Why put yourself through that pain? Why—? Oh." Morgan pushed back, his eyes widening as he peered at Laurent's long face. "Oh, I see. Laurent, no."

"I'm not quite certain I know what you're objecting to…"

"You will not," Morgan said, his voice a rapt warning, "under any circumstance use the manakete claw to find out what happened to your mother. I forbid it. Lord Grima forbids it."

"Voice of Grima," Laurent said quietly, almost reverent, but clearly mocking. He nodded once anyway, curtly acknowledging Morgan's request.

What Grima had done to Miriel was too horrible to say. The desert sands were still stained from the butcher. It had been Risen.

Thousands and thousands of Risen.

There was no escape when the world was a haze and mirages made thousands into millions.

She'd given up. She'd begged.

For herself. For her son.

Morgan smiled up at Laurent, and he twirled Nah's claw between his fingers.

He loved. He hated. This was his nature.

He was responsible for all the wrongs in all the world. Guilt was plainly who he was, Guilt and Grima both.

"You work very hard for my sister," Morgan noted. Laurent did not glance up from his page. "For me as well. For Lord Grima. Do you ever… resent us?"

"I see no reason to resent such incredible beings," he said.

Morgan hummed idly. "Ah, well," he laughed, "for one, we stole everything you ever held dear from you."

"I've no taste for religion, if you'll excuse me saying, and as for my loyalties, you understand where they are, so I ask you, Morgan." Laurent raised his eyes, and they were sharp and cold. "Do not attempt to test me. I am, as will I always be, your loyal servant. Let me do my job in peace without having to consider the wrongs done against me."

Morgan was surprised. He nodded vacantly in shock. "As you wish," he said, attempting to wrap his head around Laurent's reasoning. Did he know? Was he figuring it out? Did he truly not care? What was he plotting?

There was something amiss here.

Severa returned, her brown pigtails trailing behind her as she pointed her chin at them. Lucina followed behind her, and then finally Gerome, who'd donned his mask once more. Typical.

"How are you feeling, Gerome?" Morgan asked.

"I'll be content," the boy whispered, "when I see Nah's wings tacked to a wall."

"How colorful," Morgan cooed. In truth the idea of it made him sick. His back muscles ached at the thought.

"We've come to the conclusion," Lucina declared, making her way to the table, her voice sharp and sweet and shocking, "that Nah must die."

"Marvelous." Morgan rested his cheek in his hand. "I'll do it."

Lucina glanced at him. "No."

He glanced right back. "Yes," he said.

"No."

"Lucina, that's hardly fair."

"Minerva was Gerome's mount," she said firmly, "therefore Nah is his kill."

"Gerome is hardly capable of taking down Nah," Morgan scoffed.

"You think I cannot cut down a little girl?" Gerome growled.

"I think you cannot cut down a dragon girl who is clearly far smarter than you!" Morgan whirled to face him. His mask hid all his anger, but Morgan felt it. However, Morgan was angry too. "You do not know Nah, clearly, if you insist she is a little girl. You do not know anyone, Gerome, you're too self involved! That is why you won't be able to kill Nah. She is faster than you, stronger than you, smarter than you, and Minerva, your only leverage in battle, is gone. If she were not so kind, she'd dismember you the instant she saw your lying, turncloak face."

"Morgan," Lucina warned. "You're out of line."

"Am I?" Morgan looked into her eyes, truly looked into them, and he forced her to see the truth in his words. "Are you certain? Or are you letting your feelings cloud your judgment?"

She considered him for a moment, and she stepped forward. Severa had cleared out of the way before she'd even moved, and Gerome stood silently, rather shocked by Morgan's words. Laurent simply observed from his side of the table, a tome in hand.

"Tell me," his sister whispered, moving in a slow, even circle around him. He did not dare let her see a glimmer of uncertainty within him. She would crack first. She had to. "Do you not trust my judgment, Morgan? Do you not believe in me?"

"I believe in you," he gasped, beaming at her as she circled him, "most certainly!"

"Then my friends. They are the ones you have no faith in."

Morgan tilted his head. He smiled. "Lucina," he said gently. "I'm hardly qualified to pass any real judgment on anyone here. But here is the issue. I am more willing to bet on myself in this situation than on anyone else in this room. The question is not whether I believe in any of you. It's if you believe in me."

And to that, Lucina had no answer. She stopped, lifting her head to him, and she stared at him for a long time. Then nodding, she whirled away.

"Tell me what makes you the better choice to send for Nah's head," she said.

Gerome did not object. It was not in his reclusive nature to do such a thing. So Morgan let himself be heard.

"It's simple," he said. "All of you are looking at this as well, yes, kill Nah, who is practically a child. But you forget. She is not a child. She is a manakete, and young as she may be she's hardly touchable in dragon form, lest Lord Grima show up to gobble her up. Which, as you might imagine, is unlikely." Well, it was a half truth. "So you need to keep Nah from panicking and transforming into a dragon. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Except for one thing." He leaned forward, placing his hands firmly on the table, and he smiled at them all sweetly. "Not one of you understands her enough to be able to talk to her for that long. Firstly, the only one of you four who is charismatic enough to pull it off is Lucina. And, Luci, I love you, but Nah won't receive you so kindly."

"And she'd listen to you?" Gerome asked hoarsely. Severa scoffed.

"Oh, is that so?" Her voice was thin and taunting. "I can't even imagine, Morgan, what talent you must possess to beat Lucina in a contest of charisma!"

"Quiet," Lucina snapped. "Both of you. Morgan is not wrong. I'd have no idea how to speak with Nah. I'd likely just attack her. She is the enemy, after all, and beyond negotiation."

"Let me go," Morgan pleaded with her. "I can kill her without a hitch. Allow me to do this one thing, and I promise you won't regret it. Honestly, think about it. I'm hardly ever out of the castle. I'm hardly ever anywhere. I need to kill her. It needs to be me."

"Sounds like someone's possessive," Severa cooed.

_You're one to talk_, Morgan bit back.

Lucina held up her hand, and Severa quieted. The silence stretched between them, and Morgan continued to smile. He knew something they did not. That was the smile he wore every day. They could not understand how his mind worked. How it hardly even worked at all.

"Fine," Lucina said. She placed a hand on Morgan's head, smoothing his hair back and letting her knuckles graze his cheek. "I'll put my faith in you, Morgan. You will find Nah, and you will kill her."

Morgan smiled brightly. His insides were rotting away, hot and baking in a stew of disgust.

"I won't disappoint you!" he gasped. Tears were stinging the corners of his eyes.

* * *

><p>It was warm. The air was light and the breeze was consistent, and the temperature remained steady in spite of everything. When she'd made it there, she'd thought that it had to be an act of trickery, a mirage of sorts. The grass was soft and green, and it bent in slow, undulating waves when the constant breeze ran itself over the expansive field. It had been so long since she'd seen green grass. There were flowers poking out between the blades, not little white weeds like the ones she and Inigo picked, but real ones, real blossoms sprouting outwards in a myriad of colors.<p>

Hyacinths and Gardenias and Poppies and Marigolds and Tulips, fat petals of all different shapes, crimped and cropped and crumbled, folded and flattened and flowing, sharp and smooth and slim, colors of dirty, bruised dusk skies and of glittering winter snows and of bleeding sunsets and of burning horizons and of blinding morning rays. There was a great, gnarled tree, and there was so much grass, and the air smelled so clean it burned her lungs, so fresh and untainted, so miraculously pure. This place was untouched by Grima, somehow, someway, and it made her feel as though she'd been delicately unfastened from her body and allowed to float in an endless current of wavering winds above this sanctuary to watch the flowers grow and die and dance in light and the night and in the constant breeze forever and ever and ever.

It was almost okay now, that Naga had abandoned her.

Yes, she'd left her friends, left her camp, left her exalt to worry after her, and it was because she was losing herself in terror of Naga's lack of presence. Naga did not speak to Nah anymore. Naga had truly left her last manakete to rot in a world of death and dust and darkness.

Ask her. Ask her what drove her, what pushed her forward, what allowed her to be the one who could always lend a helping hand. Ask her if she truly could handle it.

Ask her if she had not felt some relief upon fleeing from her duties. She'd never answer. She'd rather rip her own heart out and devour it.

So. She'd left. She wondered how they were fairing without her. She'd left a note, of course, she hadn't gone completely mad, but it was difficult to imagine returning. They'd yell at her. Scold her for her negligence. She wanted to beg for their forgiveness, but at the same time she just did not want to burden them any longer with her false sense of security. They thought she knew exactly what she was doing. In truth, she was so lost that she felt herself fading with every breath she drew. And she was to live for millennia.

She was already sick and tired of this world. To think she was to be here for a grand eternity made her sick to her stomach.

So she'd taken flight. It had drained her energy, staying in dragon form in so long, so when she finally landed on the Divine Dragon Grounds, she stumbled into the field of grass, all nine of her fingers grazing the long stemmed pink tulips and crimson poppies and sun-drenched marigolds, her boots flattening the long green sea of grass and flattening it to the earth. She'd laughed in disbelief of this beautiful, beautiful place, and she'd dropped onto her back and let the grass swallow her up, flowers fluttering around her, wind swirling overhead, plump white clouds crossing over the sky, and she grinned upward, her body pressed to the warm earth, and she took a deep breath of the cleanest air she'd ever breathe.

She closed her eyes, and she'd gone to sleep.

Truthfully, she felt as though she'd slept for years. She awoke in darkness, and then napped again, awoke and slept and awoke and slept, too weary to truly care. She and her sanctuary. She felt safe here. She felt loved. She sent her thoughts and prayers out to Naga, but of course there was no response. That was hardly new. But it hurt anyway.

Nah stayed there for days. Weeks. She slept for most of it. She dreamt. She breathed. She prayed.

She begged Naga to come, to help somehow, to change their fates and rewrite what Grima had carved into stone.

She pleaded for her friends to live through this battle. For Lucina to have the veil torn from her eyes. For Morgan to fight his nature.

She dreamt of him and her and them. She saw the world crumble at her feet, this beautiful land scorched, this beautiful boy an empty husk on a throne of awkward, deformed bodies. She felt his heart break apart, and she tasted his tears in her mouth, hot and bleeding, flames to battle the ice of her breath.

She saw a girl with hair like midnight skies, who danced and dared but had no understanding of her own actions. She'd been tricked and tied to someone else's fate from the start. She'd been stained by blood and by bond. She was hopeless, but still, her heart bore love for the weak and the miserable souls she'd left behind upon fleeing Ylisse. Just as Nah had just done.

She dreamt of Tiki. She hadn't a clue what had happened to the Voice, but Nah felt that she'd been dead a long while. Tiki's face floated in the seas of Nah's mind, not in memory, never in memory, for Nah had never met Naga's true daughter, but she saw her. She looked like what Nah had always imagined a goddess to look like, soft faced and soft eyed, plump pink lips and tender skin. She was beautiful, and Nah felt her in her head and in her heart.

She awoke from her prayer. The day had dimmed, and sunset was sloshing around her, burning the green grass and sending her into a haze of brilliant reds and oranges. She saw wisps of her auburn hair, and it looked like swirling firelight. She yawned, blinking contentedly as she stretched herself, her back stiff from hours and hours of napping against the tree. She stretched her arms above her head, her eyes swiveling around her twilit sanctuary.

Beside her, slumped against a tangled root, was a slumbering boy.

Some part of her had seen this coming.

His face was dark, his skin warm and brown in the dying light, and his deep blue hair hanging in lofty waves, curling at his forehead and around his ears, twitching subtly in the eternal breeze. Nah was stunned to see him. It had been a long time. She could not recall when she'd seen him last, or maybe she just did not want to recall. He looked older, his round face slimming out slowly, his legs tangled up, longer and longer than they'd ever been before. She stared at him, and she realized that he was getting old, and she was still a child. And that was how it always would be.

She wished herself wholly human so she could age alongside him.

Nah sat up straight, her mouth parted in shock, and she had the urge to touch him to be certain he was really there. This boy, this traitorous boy, was Grima's tool. And yet, here he was. He'd come for her, certainly. Nah did not understand. She'd been praying for hours. It had been morning when she'd begun. Perhaps the morning before, or even the morning before that. Instead of killing her in her most vulnerable state, he waited.

Why?

Nah didn't have the time to ask.

She crawled closer to him, holding her breath as her heart battered against her ribs and thudded in her throat. Her eyes were watering meagerly from anxiety. She scooted even closer. Her eyes moved from his delicate face to the threadbare coat of his mother, Robin, the famed tactician, to the thin shirt he wore beneath that and the lines of his collarbone as his throat lay bare. The shine of silver pulled at her, lulled her into reaching carefully beneath the folds of his coat and grasping his sword by its hilt. She tore it from his scabbard, and the moment he stirred, she leapt at him.

She sat upon his legs, straddling his waist with one leg hooked behind him, and she pinned his arms to the twisted tree root, holding the gleaming blade of his sword to his bobbing adam's apple. He was awake now, blinking wildly in shock as he adjusted to lucidity. He stared into her eyes, and she gripped the blade tighter. Tricks. That was all Morgan was. A big fat trickster.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, pressing the blade so hard into his skin that she saw, vaguely horrified, dark beads of blood slip slow down the surface of his warm brown neck.

He smiled at her as though she were not holding his sword to his throat. "Is it not obvious?" He blinked at her wildly. "I'm here to kill you!"

"Oh." She adjusted herself in his lap, digging her fingers into his arm and taking a breath to calm herself. "Well. Marvelous. Shall I slit your throat now, then?"

"Oh," he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. "You _could _do that. I won't stop you. It looks as though your dress is already stained, so what's a bit more blood splashed onto it? I should warn you, though, killing me will steal Lucina's soul away. You'll never see the light of the world again."

"You talk as though there's hope for anyone," Nah spat.

He looked utterly bewildered. He stared into her eyes, his mouth dropping open, and lines of confusion built up on his sweet face. "Is there not?" he asked incredulously.

"No," she said. His eyes moved about her face, soft and wide and searching, so very alarmed and very scared, and out of pure guilt she backpedaled, her heart bursting. "No, I… I don't know. I don't know, Morgan. You've made too much of a mess. I can't say if the world will ever recover from it."

"Nah," he said, his voice drifting through her ears and caressing her brain. "This world was sick long before I was delivered into it. This fate would be here whether I played a hand or not."

"The problem is that you helped!" Nah felt his breath hot against her cheeks, but she did not care. She held the sword up against his throat, and she thought of Lucina sneaking up from behind and skewering her. So be it. "Morgan… Morgan, you were so loved. You still are. Owain plots time and time again ways to save you, to rescue you from yourself, and the others… we wish you could see sense!"

"I see sense," Morgan sighed. "Nah, lift that blade. I've been sitting here for hours. If I had the intent to kill you, you would have been dead the moment I saw you praying."

This shocked her. "You…?" She lowered the sword weakly. "You'd go against an order?"

"I decide who I put to death," Morgan said simply. His smile had fallen, and he looked so very weary, the shadows under his eyes plain for her to see. She found herself struck by terror of him, because she knew he was tricky, and she knew she was vulnerable, and she knew. She'd known from the moment she'd stepped foot in this beautiful place that she was doomed to meet this dreadful, divine boy.

"I've heard terrible stories," Nah whispered, letting her words hit him, strike him like blows, like her small bony knuckles on his immaculate cheeks. "Everywhere I go they say that you and the grimleal pillage and burn, crusading through villages and whole countries until the entire world falls to Grima. I've heard the most horrible things, Morgan. They call Lucina a wicked priestess, and Gerome a demonic omen, and Laurent a heartless sorcerer, and Severa a rabid hunting dog. And you, Morgan, they call you the little beast. You're terrible."

"I've never pretended to be anything but," he told her vacantly, peering into her eyes. "Nah, human beings are terrible. You are terrible, same as me."

"I am not!" She shook her head furiously. "And humans… humans are not so terrible as you say."

"No? I suppose you lost your finger in a terrible accident, then, hm? No " His brow furrowed in sharp irritation, and he grabbed her hand, the warmth of his skin sending goosebumps shooting up her arms, her hair standing on end as he clenched her knuckles and pressed his sword harder against his jugular. Nah's mouth fell open in horror as the blood pooled down his neck and gathered in the hollow of his throat. "You're trying to kill me. Does that not make you a terrible person too?"

She tore her hand away, dropping the sword at her side and clapping her hands over her mouth. Tears were building in her eyes, and he looked at her, his mouth opening in alarm.

"I didn't mean to upset you!" he squeaked, lifting his hands toward her face. She flinched from him, and he stopped, his hands hovering for a moment before he understood her fear, and he let them fall. "I'm sorry, Nah. As you said, I'm terrible. I don't pretend that I'm not. But I did not come here to kill you."

She rubbed her eyes furiously, and he sat beneath her, placid and patient, his neck bleeding and his eyes large with remorse. She hated him. She hated his charisma and his plays, his undeniable pull. She was already in too deep. She already adored him.

"Morgan…" she mumbled. "I hate you."

"I don't think you do."

She wiped her tears away, and she scowled at him. "Oh, are you a mind reader now?" She slammed her fist against his chest, and he winced. She froze, astonished that she'd actually fazed him. She gaped at him, and he shifted beneath her, stretching out his legs and glancing from her face down at her positioning. She looked down as well, and she flushed in embarrassment, her chest brushing his every time she inhaled, and she wanted to cry because it wasn't fair at all. This wasn't fair at all, and her heart clenched in despair as her eyes fell from his, tracing the lines of his nose and lingering on his mouth. The shape was soft and subtle, his lower lip slightly plumper than the upper one, but it evened out when he smiled.

"I would hardly call myself a mind reader," he murmured. "But, um… I honestly think I can guess where your mind is right now."

She jolted, her entire body stiffening as she squeaked, "_What_?" Her face turned bright red and her eyes began to water in mortification. She crawled off his lap, biting her tongue and trying to keep cool, because she was supposed to be confident and smart, but around Morgan she felt utterly transparent. It made her sick to her stomach.

"I don't mind at all," Morgan offered her as she curled up against the tree beside him, burying her face in her hands. "I admire you as well, you know. You're very pretty."

"Just…" Nah held her hand up to his face, laying her palm on his cheek and gently pushing it the other way. "Stop. Don't look at me. Okay?"

"Okay…" He kept his face turned from her as she caught her breath. She tried to pass it off as something else, not a big deal, not a big deal, but she couldn't. It was a big deal. It was a huge deal. She felt as though she were suffocating. "I'm sorry for upsetting you."

"Quit saying stuff like that!" Nah scooped up his sword, and she leapt to her feet. She'd regained at least some semblance of sense. "You have orders to kill me, don't you? Well, then, go ahead! Try and kill me!"

"But I already told you," he gasped, throwing up his hands. "I don't mean to kill you, Nah. Please hear me out."

"Why?" she whispered, tears burning her eyes. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because!" He jumped up, dusting off his long coat, the purplish eyes of Grima glaring at her from the stitching on his sides. "I'm making you an offer! Nah, I want to come with you back to Owain. I want you to make me your hostage."

She stood, thinking over this proposal and absolutely puzzled by it. This made no sense. She couldn't fathom it. But then, yes, she most certainly could. Morgan always was the one that they could never account for. He was mercurial, an utter anomaly in nature. He was calm and cool, but triggered by rage at a drop of a hat. He loved people in their entirety, but he hated the world by default. She trusted and adored him, and she knew that he was nothing but death and destruction under the guise of a sweet, warm, lovely boy.

"Explain," she demanded. He'd already won her over.

"Oh boy," he whistled. "Okay. Nah, you said you think I'm terrible. That's true. I know I am." He wrung his hands nervously about his coat, and he took a deep breath. "Yes. It's true. I'm terrible. I am Grima's son. I am Grima's heir. I am, as far as I know, the one true vessel of Grima."

She felt the sword droop in her hand, and she stood in a daze, trying to process these words, trying to understand what he could possibly mean. Vessel of Grima. Voice of Naga. These things were titles, these things were truths, and she tasted the disgust on her tongue like bile burning the back of her mouth. She realized it, her heart constricting so painfully that she had to close her eyes.

She was in love with Grima.

"And I'm to trust you," she whispered, her voice tearing from her throat and spilling in the air, her soul aching with every breath, wriggling and writhing from pain of being kept prisoner in her slowly aging body. "You expect that of me, don't you? Irrevocable trust. Me, the last manakete, to you! Grima!"

"I am not Grima!" Morgan blurted, stumbling closer to her. "That's why I'm talking to you, Nah! I… I understand that I've done a lot of terrible things—"

"Oh boy…" she groaned.

"But!" He bit his lip nervously. "But! I know, okay? I know that I am human more than anything else. Lord Grima owns my soul, I'll admit to that, and yes, Nah. Some part of me… is the embodiment of the fell dragon…"

She truly was going to be sick.

"However!" He clapped his hands together. "I am, without a doubt, a separate entity. Lord Grima exists beyond my body. Therefore, I exist beyond Lord Grima."

"I don't believe you." _I do_, she thought, her eyes large and awestruck. _I do, I do, I really do_.

"I…" He held his head, blinking rapidly. He moaned. "Ah… maybe I was mistaken… thinking you'd understand. I thought because… because of your connection to Naga, you could help me. I don't want to become an empty husk, a heap of flesh for Lord Grima to slide into whenever they need a human face to toy with. I love Lord Grima, but I also am scared, and I don't want this. Help me."

"Morgan…" She didn't know what to say. Help him? Help the boy who'd destroyed the world? She would rather die! At least, that was what she wanted to believe. She was truly enthralled by him. There was no way around it. Grima had him in their clutches, but she had the chance to turn the tide. Morgan was the key.

_It could be a trick_, she thought. She dropped her sword. _I don't care anymore. Trick me, then, Grima. I'm here. I'm done. I did not plan for this, and I don't care any longer. I haven't a clue, so if you are tricking me, than so be it!_

She could not care less. She was no longer the resilient, steadfast, sweet and helpful girl she knew everyone relied on.

That girl could not have existed, really.

"Help me," he pleaded, tears staining his eyes bright red. "I… I see things. Hear things. Feel things. It's always been this way, but lately I know it's gotten worse. I'm becoming something inhuman, and as monstrous as I am, I can't bear to lose my humanity. My mother was human. My father was human. Lord Grima, a parent of mine, cannot wholly claim to have created me. I'm gullible, Nah, but not so much that I do not understand my own identity. Robin and Chrom are my mother and my father. Grima is higher than that. But in my heart, I know. I know. I know that it's true, that I am a human boy, who has human feelings, and I want to be certain that Lord Grima, as much as I love them, does not strip me of that."

She could not breathe. This was truth. She could feel it, the way the truths melted against the air, warming her cold heart. He stood before her, begging and pleading with her to simply take him as a prisoner, and she was denying him… out of what? Spite? She was a fool!

She was a fool to trust him.

"Morgan," Nah murmured. "I want to believe you."

"Then do," he gasped, stepping toward her. "Please, please, do! Nah, you must bear some love for me somewhere, I just know it. Can you imagine it? Imagine someone in your head, pulling at you and whispering, telling you exactly what to do all the time, even if you don't necessarily want to. I love Lord Grima. I love Lord Grima. I do, I do…" He covered his face with his hands, breathless and shaky. "Oh, I do, I do, I do! I love Lord Grima, but I can't do this, Nah, I can't! I feel as though something's terribly wrong, and I don't want to cease to exist entirely so that Lord Grima may take over. I'm selfish, I know, but—"

"No, Morgan," Nah gasped, grabbing his hands and prying them from his face. "No, no, no! You're… you're not selfish at all. Listen to me. If Grima's been controlling you, you must tell me! Does Grima influence all of you? Is that the problem? Oh, Morgan!" Nah was reeling. She felt drunk on information, and she gripped his hands, savoring in their warmth even from beneath his gloves. "I'm sorry. I must seem cruel, I suppose, to treat you this way."

"No," he said cautiously. "I know cruel, Nah. You are not it."

That did not make her feel any better.

She tentatively tugged his gloves away. He watched her, his eyes large and curious. "I do understand," she whispered. "I understand perfectly what trial you are going through." She let his gloves fall to the grass, and she gripped his warm fingertips, running her thumbs over the raised birthmarks that stained the flesh of the backs of his hands. The Mark of Grima and the Brand of the Exalt. Two terrible marks to brand a boy with a terrible fate.

"Can you help me?" he whispered. He sounded truly terrified. "I don't want to upset Lucina, but I can't think of any other way to make sure I… I stay me… somehow…"

"I will help you," Nah said firmly. "And this is why." She dragged one of his hands closer to her, brown skin darkened by the dwindling light, and fireflies flickered into life around them, splashing his face momentarily yellow and allowing him to look part an angel in the dusk. She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed the Brand of the Exalt, closing her eyes and praying to Naga to save her. She gripped his hand tightly, her mouth lingering on his hot skin, and she felt his hand on her cheek.

"That's a sweet thing," he sighed. "I did not know my father, you know, but I feel as though I've betrayed him somehow. Wearing this brand and not honoring its contract. Tell me, Nah, how can I fix that?"

"I very much doubt that is something you want to do," she murmured against his warm flesh. She wanted him to know, to understand, but she could not say it, and so she simply said nothing about it.

"You speak to Naga," he whined, pushing her hair back from her eyes and dragging his knuckle down her cheek. She wanted to laugh. "Surely you can figure something out."

"It does not work like that, Morgan."

"I want you to save me, Nah," Morgan said. In his voice, she could hear a thousand agonies. He bore the weight of the pain of all the people Grima had hurt. All the people Grima had made him hurt. He fiddled with her braid, idle and uncertain, nothing like the confident boy he'd been pretending to be at the start. It seemed they were exactly the same. They pretended. They lied. The faked their way into respect and then wallowed in the fact that they were nothing.

"Then I'll try my best," she breathed. She retrieved her dragonstone, holding it tightly in her fists, the warmth scorching her fingertips. Fireflies danced around them, landing in his hair and on flowers, bouncing from blades of grass. "You are the Vessel of Grima, Morgan."

"Yes…" He tickled her nose with the end of her braid, and she ignored it. "I thought we established this."

"You've been gravely wounded, I think," she said holding her dragonstone to her chest. "Not a wound of the body, but of the soul. Let me heal you best I can. Then you can return to camp with me and testify to your experience."

There were tears in his eyes. He smiled tremulously, and he nodded. She sensed it. She felt it. But she had given up a long time ago, and she felt that this was good, this was a good end to a good story, so she closed her eyes, and she held her stone, and she waited.

He kissed her. The pressure on her lips was magnified by the warmth of his skin and the warmth of her dragonstone as it latched onto him, swirling about and catching on the light of dragonflies, moving and writhing and breathing as she breathed. She did not know much about kissing, it was all very strange and foreign. Inigo often brushed his lips to her hair and forehead, and Owain her cheek or knuckles. But being kissed like this was unbearably new, and she felt his proximity and his warmth, and she felt his darkened heart, and heard something far off calling to her, an unheard caveat that she'd sensed from the moment of her arrival.

She kissed him back with chapped lips digging into his softened ones, her glowing dragonstone pressed between them as he let his hand fall to her neck, his thumb gingerly stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. This boy was Grima, this boy was _Grima_, and that haunted her. She was kissing not a toy or a dog of the fell dragon, but the fell dragon's chosen human form himself. Had Chrom felt so horrified and enticed when he'd found out? She was in love with Grima.

Maybe love wasn't the right word. Not for Grima. For Grima, she hated. For Morgan, she loved. Anomaly. Imbalanced child. She tasted his sins on his tongue, and she stole them away and washed his heart with the light. Her own heart was alight with wonder, but at the same time she knew.

She opened her eyes as his hand slid from her neck and fell against her chest, his palm settling over her heart and his lips still locked firmly around hers, as though to keep her quiet, to keep her from screaming as magic pulsated through the air, a different magic than the healing touch of Naga, and the entire world stuttered and rocked, fireflies igniting and combusting as her nerves were set on fire and her heart was sliced by white hot wires in the form of lightning bolts.

She teetered on her feet, her lips stuck dryly to his, and she laughed a little, choking on the sound as blood filled her lungs. It tasted metallic and burnt.

Four red eyes were wide open and glowering at her intensely. _Mine_, Grima seemed to be spitting at her as she wobbled and blinked, the lightning strike making its way through her body. She choked.

She stumbled back, and he stared at her, his mouth opening.

She clutched her chest, laughter making her feel as though her veins were unraveling from her muscles, and her ribs were crumbling and caving in.

"You…" she whispered, her dragonstone still clamped in one hand. "You liar…"

He caught her when her legs gave out, his arms looping around her waist, and she wasted her tears on him once more, her lips trembling pitifully as her eyesight failed and everything around her became a senseless blur. She saw fireflies. She felt safe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

He sometimes dreamt of reversing time and averting fate. He sometimes thought feverish thoughts, hopeful, languished thoughts of brighter days and happier times. He sometimes wished. But that was the child in him still breathing somehow, in spite of how damn hard he tried to beat him to death with blunt words and turned backs. That child was perpetually screaming.

He ignored it. He ignored desire and he ignored pain. He'd ignore the whole world if he had to.

Sometimes, even he tired of his gloominess.

"What do you think?"

Sometimes, even he wanted for something.

"I understand, you know. You can talk to me."

Sometimes, even he feared and ached and cried.

"Gerome." Lucina's steady voice drifted through his head. He waited for her to touch his cheek patiently, but she did not. He felt dejected. "Are you angry with me for choosing Morgan over you?"

"That'd be childish," he responded evenly. _But yes_, he added mentally, his eyelids drooping. Nah had killed Minerva, so it was only _just_ that Gerome killed her. It was the cycle of vengeance. It was his _right_.

"It would be," Lucina agreed, staring into his eyes with a long, chilly gaze. Oh no, had he angered her? He really could not take that right now. "You understand why I made that choice, correct?"

He felt the urge to shift uneasily beneath her stare, but he quelled it. "I suppose," he said, "you wanted to give him a chance to prove himself." How noble of her. Couldn't she have done it with, say, Cynthia? Owain? Brady? Anyone but the girl who had murdered his last connection with his mother?

"Well, yes." Lucina sighed. "In part, yes, that was a factor. Gerome, do you listen to a word Morgan says?"

"Of course."

"No," Lucina said, sitting down on her bed. He stared at her. This was always difficult. _Everyone whispers_, he thought vacantly, _of these secret, intimate things that we apparently do, but not once has she so much as eyed me in such a way_. Gerome would not make any advancement, and she seemed to have her head consistently caught up in only two things. Morgan and Grima. Gerome found that he was incapable of resenting either. "No, Gerome. I don't think you do. If you listened to Morgan, you would see no sense in killing Nah."

"He volunteered to kill her," he argued in a dull voice. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"Nah is useful," Lucina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Morgan will kill her, yes, but you know why he volunteered as well as I."

"No. What?" Gerome had to think very hard. "No. Explain."

She laughed at him amusedly, her eyes sparkling with a light he was surprised to see. He didn't hear Lucina laugh much anymore. It was such a brilliant, boisterous sound, loud and unrestrained, and she seemed to realize that, for she stopped. That made him sad.

"Morgan is in love with Nah," Lucina said, folding in hands in her lap. Her eyes seemed to soften, and she lifted her head toward the ceiling. "Or at least, he's in love with the idea of her. Which he knows is wrong. Ah, it's difficult to get into his head. Almost as difficult as it is to get into yours." She tilted her chin at him, and she smiled gently. "Are you alright, Gerome? You've hardly cried since Minerva—"

"I'm fine." He looked down at his feet. Morgan was in love with Nah. That made him sick to his stomach. Stupid, idiot, monster of a boy! Did he not see how rotten she was?

But he was rotten too, and they all knew it.

What a pair they'd make.

"Did you…" Gerome leaned forward, finding his composure slipping as the revelation came over him. "You… you sent him instead of me to test him… to test his loyalty…"

Lucina's gentle smile widened. He shivered at how truly venomous she was.

"Very good," she said, tapping her lips. "See, I knew you knew. I can always trust you to know, Gerome."

He wanted to sigh, a wistful, disbelieving sigh. This girl would be the death of him.

"But you don't trust Morgan?" Admittedly the boy was a little… off, but this was strange. Lucina loved Morgan. There was no questioning her loyalty to him. She'd do anything for him.

"Not particularly." Lucina shrugged. "I mean, do you?"

Well. Point.

He sat down beside her, staring vacantly ahead of him. He was trying to process this. Grief was still eating at him, and without the knowledge that Nah had paid for Minerva's death… Oh, it was killing him.

"Lucina," he murmured. "What if he doesn't kill Nah? What will we do?"

"If Morgan returns and Nah is not dead, the task will fall to you," Lucina said. "Though, if you chose to let her live, I wouldn't be opposed to it."

Let her live? After what she'd done? No. Never.

"Thank you," he said. He could have spoken his mind about Nah, but truthfully he didn't know. Were his feelings simply the heat of the moment? Would he regret murdering that girl later? He didn't know. He didn't know the world or himself well enough to determine such a thing. "And if he does not return at all?"

She eyed him. Not particularly kindly, and it made him want to squirm, but he had more self-control than that.

"If he does not return," she said, "we'll have a far larger problem on our hands than a pesky manakete."

She was imagining what Grima would say. He knew it. He knew that Grima spoke to her, whispered in her ear, and Gerome had let it happen. This transformation, this terrible transition from pleasant girl to vicious beast. She'd killed. She'd burned. She'd let Grima devour whole villages, cities, empires, civilizations. She was no longer the exalt, no longer a hero, and yet here he was. At her side, never faltering. He would lay down his life for her in a heartbeat. He'd plunge a sword into his heart if she so much as asked.

"Will you use Nah's claw?" Lucina asked him.

"No. I haven't any need for peeping into the past, nor the future. What matters is now."

"Hm, maybe so." She smirked at him, her dark fingers drawing against her cheek as she leaned forward. "But aren't you the least bit curious? You could see your mother's face again. Your father's. You were young when he died, I suppose you forgot about him."

"We were not much alike."

"Are any of us like our fathers?" Lucina asked him, her eyes bright and burning with the light of Grima's fire. Gerome shuddered, for this girl had him by the neck, and he could taste her every move before she made it. She'd strangle him with his own love, and that was fine, that was okay, he would gladly let himself bleed out for her if she uttered offhandedly that she was a little parched.

"I don't know."

Were any of them like their fathers?

Did any of it matter? The struggling and the pleas? Gerome heard begging in the clogged up canals of his ears, pleading, panicked voices that were at the edge of extinguishing. There was blood under his nails that would not come out no matter how hard he scrubbed. There was a scream in his throat that shook him to the bone, but could not be released, for he'd shackled it to his gullet and beaten it down into submission.

Were any of them like their fathers?

Gerome's father had been a man of finery, a quick, eager tongue and a boastful nature. In Gerome's limited memory of him, he was always smiling vividly, bouncing Gerome on his knee and cooing like a fool. Gerome never really showed it, but that thought of mad bouncing, bubbly laughter burning his chest, often helped him sleep at night. His mother was his tether, and his father was his balloon. Memories of her kept him grounded, and memories of him let him drift away.

Gerome didn't even remember his face.

Were any of them like their fathers?

He lifted his hand, cautiously letting his gloved knuckles brush her cheekbone as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She smiled.

Were any of them—?

"Take off your mask," she whispered.

Gerome did as she asked, for she was under his skin, and he wished she'd just tear it all from his bones already, for he knew, he knew, he knew that's what she wanted.

She touched his cheek, and he kept his composure, suppressing another shudder as she let her thumb roam the dark circles beneath his eyelids, forcing his gaze to bore directly into hers. Her fingernails hooked painfully beneath his jaw, and she dragged his face closer to nip his lower lip with her teeth, sensitive skin pulling away as she leaned back, and he gasped in dismay as his skin tore and blood hit his tongue, her breath the only thing he could inhale as she giggled against his chin.

"A forewarning," she exhaled into his skin, "when I choose my brother over you, Gerome, you best believe I have a good reason. Is that clear?"

She stood up, wiping the blood from her chin and striding to her vanity. He sat on her bed in absolute shock, the feeling of her teeth tearing into him so vivid that he thought he might dream about it every night hereafter, a nightmare or a sweet reverie, who could say.

This was not the girl he'd fallen in love with as a child.

And yet, every day, every hour, every minute, every second, he found himself further devoted to her.

"Yes, Lucina."

"Good." She glanced back at him, her eyes burning at the irises and blackened at the sclera, and she smiled a gentle, coy little smile. "I'm so glad you understand."

_I don't understand at all_, he thought, nauseated for reasons he could not explain.

"Would you like me to leave now?" he asked in a dead voice.

"Yes, I think that might be best." She was staring into the mirror, her eyes glued on her reflection. Gerome suspected Lord Grima had made their presence known to their daughter, but not to Gerome. He stood up, cupping his bleeding lip, and he fastened his mask into place before leaving the room.

He was hopeless. If he could grant all her wishes, he would in a heartbeat. If he could ease some of her burdens, he'd gladly let himself be crushed. But nothing seemed to please her, and so he let himself get further tangled in the twisted, dewy web that Grima had spun.

Severa was whetting a sword in the courtyard, her looping brown curls loose to frame her smooth face. She glanced up at him, and he listened to the whetstone screech against the blade. She chewed on the inside of her lip, and turned her nose up at him.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

He said nothing. He realized he'd stopped to stare at her. His mind felt hazy, and his heart felt numb.

"Move it," she continued, turning her eyes back to her sword. "You're blocking the sunset"

He sidestepped. Apparently, not the right way.

She threw her sword down on the ground, a clatter that shook his soul and made him want to shrink in terror, and she leapt to her feet.

"If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to bust your pretty fucking lips right—! Oh." She blinked up at him wildly, and she tilted her head. "Huh. Looks like someone beat me to it."

Gerome turned his face away, covering his lips with curled fingers.

"What happened there?" she asked, smirking at him, her brown hair curling around her cheeks, and he thought she'd be very pretty if not for her resting bitch face.

"Why is that of importance?"

Her eyes lit up in curiosity, and she leaned forward, curls falling elegantly from her shoulders. "Why are you hiding it?"

He'd very much like to punch her, but it made him anxious to imagine it, and so he merely turned away from her, his thoughts in jumbles and Lucina's glowing eyes searing into his frontal lobe.

Nervously, he began to retreat.

"Loser!" Severa bellowed after him. "Fine! Go back to Lucina with your tail between your legs, you little bi—!" She halted herself, a sharp intake of breath forcing her to quiet, and he turned his face back to her only out of curiosity. She was facing away from him now, toward the entrance of the courtyard. "Morgan?"

Gerome whirled around. In the light of the setting sun, Morgan's silhouette seemed to be that of a giant, his shoulders hunched and his legs making long strides across the battered stones. Gerome felt the urge to flee.

"Severa," called the boy, beaming at her as he neared them. "Your hair is down! That's a refreshing change. It's very pretty."

She toyed with her silky brown curls, and she smiled at the boy, clearly pleased with his compliment. "Mhm. So you _were_ listening to me when I told you flattery will get you everywhere. Go on."

"I'd praise your beauty some more, Sev," Morgan said earnestly, his large eyes widening further to express some sort of regret. Gerome was enthralled. "For now, I'd really love to take a bath. It's been a long journey."

"So you've killed her, then," Gerome clarified, his voice dark and hoarse. Morgan glanced up at him. He smiled.

"I said I would," he said. "Did you think I'd honestly fail to do such a simple task?"

Severa stared at him. She glanced at Gerome, and then back at Morgan, her expression hard to decipher.

"Where is she?" Gerome asked sharply. "I want her head."

"Well, you can't have it," Morgan said coolly. "I left her body as a gift for the exalt to find. You're welcome to go and get her, if seeing her corpse _really_ means so much to you, but I'll warn you, Gerome. Where she rests, she stays forever."

"You make no sense," Gerome said. "All I want is confirmation of her death."

"Oh?" Morgan rolled his eyes, and he sighed. "Well. All right, then. Since you asked so graciously." He stuck his hand into the pocket of his mother's oversized coat, and from it he retrieved a circlet. It was bronze or gold, something akin to that nature that lit up like fluid, curling flames in his fist, which did not close all the way for reasons Gerome could not explain. There was a large, cleanly cut gem inlaid within the swirling metal, which Gerome realized were eyes. He hadn't a clue how Morgan had gotten the crown made in such a short amount of time. Perhaps Grima had given it to him.

"That's Nah's dragonstone," Severa breathed. She looked uncomfortable. Her eyes were large and her body was tense.

"Yep!" Morgan held it up to the light, and it burned Gerome's eyes, the trickery of the metalwork making him feel as though Grima was staring right at him. Morgan held the crown gingerly, and Gerome realized he was exercising caution with clutching it, as though his hand was cramping beneath his leather glove. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's terrible," Severa snapped. "Get rid of it!"

"Calm down," Morgan said gently, thrusting the diadem back into his pocket. "It's mine, so I can do what I want with it. You wanted me to kill Nah. Well, I've done it. Is a souvenir too much to ask for?"

"You're disgusting!" Severa snarled, shoving him hard and knocking him off his feet. Gerome watched the boy fall onto his back, blinking rapidly up at the velvet sky. There were tears in Severa's eyes.

_No_, he thought, his heart clenching as Severa opened her mouth to let Morgan know just what she thought of him. _No, you can't, you can't!_

He backhanded her, his fist colliding with her jaw and forcing her to stumble, her legs twisting and tangling around each other, and she skidded onto her side, cupping her cheek and spitting blood. He heard the _crack_ of his fist on her cheek long after it died in the heat of the desert air.

How hopeless they all were.

He helped Morgan to his feet, dusting the boy's coat off. He stared ahead of him, his mouth parted.

"Severa," Gerome said. His voice shook inside his throat. "Kneel. Your prince just won a great victory and a great prize."

"I will not—!" Severa objected, her vicious voice bleeding with all her self-righteousness, all her blatant ignorance.

"_Kneel_."

She stared at him, her eyes red and hollow. Her lips, wet with blood, trembled.

Severa sat up, her heavy breaths breaking in the dying haze of heat, sundown coughing a coolness across the wavering desert air. With all her uncertainty and all her despair, she bent the knee, and she bowed her head until her glossy, windswept brown curls curtained her face and pooled in the dirt.

Gerome met Lucina's eye as she skirted the edge of the courtyard, looking like a predator who had just found her next prey. He licked his lip where she'd bitten him. In his stupor, he found himself kneeling before Morgan too.

* * *

><p>There are mistakes, and then there are monumental shifts in the balance of life itself. Morgan had monumentally fucked up.<p>

He should have killed Nah the moment he saw he praying. He should have taken his sword and cleaved her dainty little neck in two. He should have made it so she died with some semblance of hope for him. She'd only wanted to save him. That was all. He'd sensed it the moment he'd arrived, and for reasons he could not explain he'd let it play out.

Killing her had been a mistake.

He had not meant to.

The residual spark of power that jolted through him after the lightning bolt found her heart made him sick. He did not understand. He had not meant to summon any magic, but here she was stumbling and blinking, electrocuted and fading even as he formulating new thoughts, hopelessly trying to figure a way to save her.

"You…" she exhaled, electricity on her tongue and shooting through her words. They crashed like glass inside his ears. "You _liar_…"

And she fell.

He lurched to catch her, disbelief crawling through him. In his head, there were dim images of a boy mage, hardly a man, hardly a child, who looked at him with that same vacant stare as his skin was pried from his muscles and gobbled up. Morgan could taste it in his mouth, the sweet, metallic tang of blood and the shreds of flesh against his teeth. She looked like him. Her face did not betray her pain, but her eyes bore complete and utter resignation.

"No," Morgan blurted, trying to support her body as she sunk into the grips of death. This was not what he'd intended. She'd had every intention of helping him, and he'd had every intention of killing her, but not like this, not like this, not like this, oh gods! "Nah, please, it wasn't… it wasn't me…"

Not that it mattered.

She was gone.

_Why?_ Morgan dipped his head, hugging her body close and resting his forehead against her chest. _Grima, please, explain. Why did she have to die?_

But Grima did not answer.

She was still warm, which made it easier to pretend like she was sleeping, which made it easier for Morgan to cope. He didn't want to let go, because letting go meant… what? That he admitted that he'd lost all control? Grima was part of him, and there was nothing he could do but let himself meld into the destructive force he knew he already was.

But Nah was so small, and her smile, and her hope, it had hurt him in a way that he could not fully comprehend.

She'd wanted to save him from Grima's grasp.

He'd begged her to. Had he been serious about that?

He didn't know anymore.

What was done was done. Nah was lying in his lap, hair auburn braids falling into the grass, and the more he stared at her the more his stomach hurt from grief and disgust. She was a manakete. By all accounts, she should have lived an exceptionally long life. She was just a baby in the lifespan of her people, basically, and Morgan had murdered her.

He'd kissed her and lied to her and struck her with lightning.

He'd loved her and hated her and destroyed her without meaning to.

He wanted to cry and scream and tear the world apart, because that was all he could think to do, for there was nothing left in him but an empty ache that he was desperate to fill.

He tried kissing her again, thoughts in his head of tales where heroes woke sleeping maidens with just a peck on the lips, but her skin was cooling, and her lips were stiffening, and he was horrified. She'd become ugly and shriveled soon enough. Decay would set it. Deterioration had already begun. He was out of time.

Lifting her in his arms, he moved her to the base of the tree, resting her back gingerly against the bark. Her head lolled, and he straightened it. A bloodless death made her appear to be sleeping. He'd rather her be splashed with dark, blackened gore, her white dress drenched and her skin stained, for it'd mean he would not have to remind himself over and over that he'd truly killed her.

He felt simultaneously shameful and shameless.

He opened his mouth to tell her that he'd really wanted to come with her, to be saved by her dainty dragon hands, to let the world heal from Grima's wrath, but he also knew himself better than that, and he knew that he'd come with the intent to kill her.

And he knew she'd known that too.

What types of people were they? They let these terrible things happen because it was easy.

He closed his mouth, and he stood. Her body sat in its peaceful state, untouched by the foulness of time and nature. He stared at her. She was beautiful, even now, even with her lips steadily increasing in pallor, even as her skin became wan and papery. Her auburn hair still had a sheen to it, even despite how disastrous and disheveled it was, even in the flickering light that drew from the hoards of fireflies that gathered and drifted like miniature stars in a breezy paradise.

Such a beautiful sight could not just be left to the mortal inevitability of time and decay.

No. Morgan would not stand for it.

He moved through the high grass, dragging his hands through it, letting it tickle his palms as light blinked, faded, blinked, faded, lightning bugs grazing his cheeks as they illuminated the bright peonies and poppies, bleeding color into the earth and then rapidly sucking it away. He plucked the flowers by the stems, by the handfuls, by the roots, and ripped them from their blankets, from their homes in the hard, tough earth, and he tore at the roots, flinging the hair-like tethers away as he brought them back to Nah and laid them carefully along the folds of her dress.

He ran to grab more.

His hands became sticky from nectar as he viciously uprooted flower after flower after flower after flower. He found patches of them and began to work at plucking each one individually, capturing them in bouquets and beheading them to adorn Nah's sweet neck, to kiss her ears and hug her breast, to bejewel her fingers like precious gemstones, to swath her shoulders like a velvet cloak, to bind her hair like beads of pearls, to weigh on her brown like a heavy crown.

It was not enough.

He could not be satisfied with a corpse buried in flowers, no matter how much he adored her, no matter how much he loathed her, no matter how beautiful or ugly he thought her to be, he could not, he could not, he could not, there was something missing.

He spent the better part of five hours scouring the cliffsides in the dark scraping his fingers and letting his skin slough off in order to find a patch of greenery somewhere down below where rocks smoothed outward and a white flower blinked in and out of existence with every stutter of a firefly's light passing by.

When he found it, he dropped to his knees before it, a smile so big and so gloriously empty, because he realized that this stupid flower would not bring her back or erase what he'd done, but it made him feel better anyway, because this was something she'd often spoken of with him. An offering to Naga. Naga's bell.

He bent his head to the grass, resting his forehead down against the dirt, inhaling the scent of the earth as tears stung his eyes, fire roaring in his soul and ice glazing his skin. He was doomed.

He gingerly snatched the flower up into his hands, and it felt cool and soothing, its petals melting into his bloody fingers like snow in sunlight. It was so fragile. He had to take his time climbing back up to where he'd been before, and even then he had to use magic to keep himself from falling to his death.

Nah's body was enshrined with the most beautiful flowers in all the world. The only place, Morgan supposed, that was still fertile enough that flowers (not small, stubby weeds, but real flowers) grew. And at the center of this shrine, in Nah's lap between her hands, was Naga's bell. Its petals had not so much as wilted in the climb. Smudges of red stained small sections of the creases in the petals' veined surface, but he did not mind, he was beyond pain at this point, and he'd gladly welcome more if it meant his heart would stop, stop, stop, stop, stop with its incessant aching, fumbling, screeching, for all the world had become clear to him, and all the pain he'd caused seemed so real now, so real that it hurt him.

Nah's death made all death a reality.

Morgan did not want to see what realities her corpse might make.

"I stole away your longevity," Morgan said, voice tremulous, "so let me make it up to you, Nah, okay? Let me make you as divine as I can. Forever."

Now, Morgan knew exactly what was required with magic. Every spell, every hex, every curse. It was all very calculated, and the methods could vary, but it was always a matter of what could he sacrifice to make his thoughts, his feelings, a reality?

He pulled a dagger from his boot.

"Forever," he echoed himself.

He let the blade kiss the inside of his left ring finger. Then, using all of his strength and all of his willpower, he sawed through tendon and bone, listening, eyes wide, to the flesh shred and veins snap and muscle squelch and bone screech. Tears flooded his cheeks, and he did not realize he'd screamed himself raw until he found himself on the ground, rocking unsteadily before Nah's body, his blood darkening the grass and his finger disembodied between tufts of grass. He gritted his teeth. He leapt to his feet, snatching it into his fist and throwing it into the air.

As it descended, he let himself think.

Beauty.

Pain.

Time.

Decomposition.

Deterioration set in upon death, which he knew, and she'd already begun to decay right before him, so it was natural for him to want, desire, need more than he needed oxygen for her to stop this ridiculous process of falling apart until she was bloated and purple then shriveled and white, then half eaten away, chunks of her missing, chunks of her discolored and stark, then an awkward, faded pile of bones, and then, finally, nothing at all.

Ugliness.

Happiness.

The stump of a finger descended.

He slammed his palm against it and watched it explode, blood showering Nah— and then breaking apart in a massive wave of energy, shimmering momentarily as it stole from him all his thoughts of hope and laughter, all his will to move forward and to change, all of it, all of Nah's influence, and it draped itself over her in a lethal shield of perpetual beauty.

She'd never decompose.

She'd never move from that spot.

He'd created his own little pocket of timelessness.

His hand didn't even ache.

His heart throbbed more than his bloody finger.

He wobbled in place as the sun began to rise, and he dropped onto his hands in knees, and he closed his eyes.

"Naga," he croaked.

But Naga was not there.

Naga was dead.

_Naga's dead, child_.

He should have said something. Had he known that already? Had he always known that? He didn't understand himself. Grima. Himself. Grima.

Naga.

Grima.

Nah.

Naga.

Cycles.

Repeat.

Time.

Stops.

He screamed into the grass, screamed and laughed and let himself bleed as the little dragon corpse watched on, shielded from nature and ready to start an eternal vigil. It begun with observing Morgan's first break, a fracture in his visage, fire seeping from his eyes as he laughed and ice encasing his breath as he screamed.

His journey home had been a hard one.

Leaving Nah was not something he'd wanted to do, but after hours of staring, retreating back into screams and laughter, staring, laughing, screaming, laughing, apologizing, laughing, he finally scooped up her dragonstone and pocketed it.

He took it to a smithy in Valm before returning home. Fell dragons didn't pay, so he thanked the man for his service and apologized for stabbing him forty eight times, which was something he thought excessive, but he wasn't sure, maybe it should have been more, he should have been quicker, it should have lasted longer.

He was angry at himself. At Nah. At himself. At Grima. At himself. At himself. At himself!

Why did she have to die?

Why did she have to die?

"Why did she have to die?"

"She was useless," his mother answered, smoothing his hair back, a sign that he was truly, really truly, losing his grip on reason. Grima never did that. He must really need their love right now. "You did well. The flowers were… unimpressive. Next time you kill one of those damned shepherds, do not make the display so… pretty. You may have adored her, but don't act like it, you fool. You know you hated her just as well."

"Yes, yes," he sighed. "But did she really have to die? I could have—!"

"You were going to abandon me and run away with her," Grima snapped grabbing his chin and forcing him to stare into their monstrous red eyes. His monstrous red eyes. His mother. Him. Grima. One. "It was necessary."

"Yes, Lord Grima," he agreed.

He did not agree.

They knew it.

He knew it.

But were they not one person?

He wanted to rip out a rib or two to make room for his swelling heart, for it had been damaged to the point where everything was battered and bruised and bleeding out.

Like any good child, he listened to his mother. Nah's death was a necessary part of the overarching goal. No matter what he felt, no matter how sick his heart and his head were after this atrocity, he would manage, because it was right, he was right, this was right.

Had Grima been right when they'd snapped their jaws on Nowi, crushing her bones between his teeth, and then deciding that Ricken had not suffered enough in watching his wife's gruesome demise, so his death became slow and agonizing, a sequence of pinkish, reddish strings stripped from his muscles.

The more he thought about it, the more it all felt so wrong.

Ricken's face was bleeding into Nah's, and Nowi's was flashing beneath his eyelids, and he smiled at his mother, at Lord Grima, smiled in spite of the nausea that made the lining of his stomach shed and tear in objection to his actions.

He returned home with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes.

Everything in him was screaming that he'd done something terribly wrong.

But Grima kept telling him, whispering in his ear, that he'd done it all right, that it had been right, he was right. But he didn't know what to believe.

He sensed Severa's unease with his actions the moment he confirmed Nah's death. _I loved her too_, he wanted to shout at Severa's angry face, blinking back tears. _You think you're the only one who's hesitant to hurt them? I was willing to abandon you all to find some sort of compromise!_

He could not say that, though. Grima knew enough of his near betrayal already.

Dizzily, he found himself being knelt before. He didn't understand. Why were they kneeling? He felt their hatred and disapproval, for Grima knew neither of them were comfortable with him, Severa especially. Why?

_Tell me more about how horrible I am!_

_Severa, please!_

_Severa!_

Morgan smiled to himself. This was fear. He could taste their sweat and their swears, their terror and adoration.

This was how a ruler was made.

Tears broke through his eyelashes, and he blinked as they painted his face, flushing it deeply and forcing him to shake and shiver.

Lucina strode between Severa and Gerome's kneeling bodies, ignoring them as though they were simply part of the stone structure of the courtyard. She smiled at him, taking his face in his hands and dashing his tears away.

"We have a lot to talk about," she said. He stared at her, his throat aching terribly from constriction. He didn't know how to respond, so he merely flung himself at her, his arms hooking around her waist and his face burying into her collarbone.

He breathed in the scent of her, sweat and ink and something flowery, and he felt dizzy, for his mother's smell seemed to cling to her perpetually. She rubbed his back comfortingly, and then she took his hands and pulled him away. He blinked rapidly through the tears, everything around him blurry, and he took a deep breath. She dragged him through the halls, leading him away from their kneeling friends, and he breathed heavily.

"Morgan."

Why did she have to die?

"Morgan…"

Why did they have to die?

"I'm not going to undress you, you know."

He blinked at her, vacant and afraid, and he realized she'd led him to the bathroom. He was thankful to see she'd already drawn a bath while he'd been staring off into space, feeling sick and sad.

"I killed Nah," he said, tears still falling. His voice was a wisp, and his heart had sunk to the recesses of his churning stomach.

"Yes. You said you would." Lucina was looking at him with tired eyes. He knew that this was who she was. A patient girl who was perpetually tired, and perpetually willing to clean up his messes. He shrugged his coat off and began to undress, if only because she'd told him to.

"But I didn't…" He struggled to find the words. "I…" His voice broke. "Oh, gods… Lucina… what have I…?" He couldn't do it. He dropped to his knees and began to sob, the blood of Ricken and Nowi streaking his vision, Nah's fall burning his brain and searing his heart. He felt as though her death had branded him worse than Naga or Grima ever could.

Lucina helped him into the tub, and the moment the water hit his skin, he decided he wanted to drown in it.

"Relax," Lucina whispered, a bar of soap clutched in her long fingers. He stared at her, his face streaked with tears. "It's natural to be upset."

"Grima said I did the right thing," he breathed, "but I'm not… I'm not so sure… Lucina…"

"It's hard to say," she murmured, dipping her hand into the water and wetting the soap, "whether what you did was right or wrong. The point is, it's done. You mustn't let anyone know how uncertain you are, Morgan."

"I know…" He sunk deeper into the water, staring distantly ahead of him as she dragged the soap along his collarbone. There was dirt everywhere, and he knew it. His fingers were bloody and raw. She lifted them up, and she froze at the sight of his mutilated finger.

"Morgan!" she cried, dropping the soap and clutching his hand. "What happened?"

He inhaled shakily, and he laughed, he let his head loll as he squeezed his eyes shut, sobs breaking apart inside his hysterical, breathy laughter, and she clutched his hand tighter, healing the scrapes and the cuts and the open wounds which he'd wrapped hastily out of disgust for himself and the world. The sound of his breathless sobbing echoed on the thick stone walls, lapping like water on the porcelain basins and beating his chest as they returned to him like a series of vicious, angry blows.

Forever.

Was that how long it'd take for this pain to subside?

No, the pain had been here all along. Nah had done something to rip open the scar that had grown there since childhood. She'd torn him open and let him bleed out the moment he'd struck her with that lightning bolt.

He laughed.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Lucina's expression was resigned as she dropped his hand into the brownish water.

In the corner, the girl's expression was sad, perfect and divine, like a girl who'd been bathed in sunshine as he was being bathed in his own filth. She radiated beauty, and he felt sick and ugly simply sitting in her presence. Her hair was like copper threads, spun thin on a spool and unraveled to form delicate waves. Her lips were rosy, her cheeks flushed, and she looked so… so alive… her eyes were brimming with ice, and frost clung to her lashes and kissed her skin.

He smiled at her feebly as his laughter died down and his sobs exploded in his chest.

Nah smiled back.

"I'm sorry, Morgan," she said distantly, her voice thick and broken apart, muffled as though the words had been uttered under water. "I guess I couldn't save you after all."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Love was the ruination of human existence.

Imbalanced and imperfect, it always made a mess of everything.

Everyone knew it was love that had driven Morgan and Lucina from the Shepherds. Everyone knew that it was love that had prompted Laurent, Gerome, and Severa to follow. Everyone knew that love was the reason Chrom had made a wife out of Grima and sired dragonspawn. Everyone knew that love made imbalanced, imperfect, impudent fools out of the lot of them.

And yet here they were. Loving and loving and loving.

The constant breeze tugged and whispered, like a song of old tickling her ears, her brain, her heart. It made her want to laugh and cry and scream and thrash. The scent of flowers clung to the air they inhaled, an overpowering aroma that stung their nostrils and burned their nasal cavities. In her lungs, she felt nothing but fire consuming all the oxygen there and enveloping her heart and her ribs and turning her to crumbling ash. Rage became her for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunlight, dancing rays parting through the leaves of the giant tree, and trickles of sunbeams kissing Nah's youthful face.

Nobody wanted to say what was on everyone's mind.

Love was the ruination of human existence.

Owain fell to his knees.

Was he really so shocked?

They'd all had the same fearful, vicious thoughts upon waking to find Nah gone.

_She's dead. She'd dead. She's dead, oh gods_…

Nobody wanted to say it.

Owain had ripped the camp apart, frantic and breathless and still half in a dream, his hair askew and his eyes dim as he shouted himself hoarse, the name of their lost friend shredding his lips to ribbons.

Brady had sat by the smoldering twigs and kindling that made up their collapsed fire. It had gone out during the night. He sat, staring at it with his heavy brow and his thin lips, and he looked like something had been stolen from him during the night, part of his mind or his heart or his soul, and now he was incomplete.

Cynthia had mounted her Pegasus and taken to the skies the moment Brady had stumbled from Owain's tent, asking in a very small voice if they'd seen her, if Nah was with them, where was she, where had she gone, oh no, oh no, oh gods, oh no… And when Cynthia had returned, she'd looked at all of them with big, hopeful eyes, as they'd looked at her, and there had been a heavy collapse of morale when they'd realized neither party had found Nah, and neither party would.

Yarne had run. He'd scoured the forest and the nearby villages, not even caring to hide his ears, and he'd run shouting, breathless, shouting and begging, but no one had seen any dragons, no one knew what to say or do in the face of an extinct boy. He'd gotten more alarmed silences than anything else, and he'd returned to camp with supplies and silence. He'd tossed a sack at Kjelle's feet and hid away in his tent. He had not spoken since.

Kjelle was the only one who had not made a panicked spectacle of Nah's disappearance. She'd donned her armor, brushed her hair from her eyes, and raised her chin very high. She did not crumble under the pressure of a lost cause. She did not believe in lost causes. She was the one who grabbed Owain by the collar after hours of ceaseless bellowing like a mockingbird, Nah's name echoing on the horizon every other minute. "You are our leader," Kjelle snapped at him. "Not some spineless child! Shout her name to Naga all you'd like, but we need to think if we want to find her. You must know Nah well enough to know her mind. Think of where she'd go."

Inigo had spent his time tugging up grass and weedy flowers and making crowns out of them. Noire had sat with him, unable to think straight.

"The way I figure it," he'd reasoned with himself, "she's gone off to clear her head, as we all do at times. She'll return and feel horribly about frightening us. Don't you think?"

Noire had nodded. _She's dead_, she'd thought vacantly, staring at Inigo's quick, nimble fingers, and noting how they trembled and shook, his smile easy and made of paint and glass and string. _She's dead, and you know it too_.

Who knew Nah well enough to figure it out?

None of them, really. That was why it had taken days and days and days to understand what had happened. And by the time Inigo suggested Morgan, Noire knew it was definitely too late. Owain had been optimistic, though. The moment Inigo suggested it, Owain's face had lit up, and for moment Noire thought he was going to take Inigo by the face and kiss him.

"Of course!" Owain exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh, of course, why didn't I think…? Nah's far too kind and far too stubborn to let Morgan's wickedness dissuade her! She must have gone to him to save him."

"Or join him," Kjelle said darkly.

Owain had looked at her sharply. Noire's eyes snapped wide, and then they narrowed. She'd snarled at Kjelle, every muscle in her body coiling in defense, "Only dirty, anxious cowards doubt their friends!"

Kjelle met her glower fully, and her expression was eerily serene in comparison to Noire's contorted features.

"We must learn from experience," she said, "or we'll be doomed to repeat past mistakes."

"Nah is no spy nor traitor, Kjelle," Inigo said gently. "I'm disappointed that you'd think such a thing of her."

"I'm disappointed you haven't learned by now!" Kjelle grimaced. "I had faith in Laurent. I had faith in Gerome. I had faith in Severa, I… I had faith But that faith has been bled dry. No more. When we find Nah, she will be punished for disserting us."

"_FOOL_," Noire screeched, lunging at her. _You mock her, you mock her memory, you mock her love and her trust and her nature! You mock your friends for having feelings! You mock us all with your paranoia and your misplaced logic!_

Owain caught her by the waist, dragging her back before she could claw Kjelle's face to a bloody, pulsating pulp. Noire hissed, squirming and writhing in his grip, tears in her eyes. It was difficult. She was not brave enough to tell them that Nah was likely already dead. How Noire knew that, she could not say, but she was certain of it.

They'd made their journey to the Divine Dragon Grounds. That had been Brady's morose suggestion. Cynthia and Owain eagerly boosted their optimism about Nah's fate, but Noire knew better. She sat with Yarne for the majority of the voyage, neither of them speaking, both of them knowing, sensing it in the briny air. They'd lost already.

Before arriving, Noire found Owain with the Falchion laid across his lap. He was running a rag across it, watching the surface of it gleam. Her eyes moved to the brand that twisted his skin, morphing it and pinching it in ugly ways. She did not like it at all.

He'd looked up at her, smiling his bright, easy smile, the kind that always seemed real even if it wasn't. He was almost as good at fooling people as Inigo.

"Noire," he greeted.

She sat down beside him, folding her hands in her lap. She was anxious and sad. She'd cried half the journey when no one was looking, and instead of sleeping she merely offered her prayers to Naga, pleading and bargaining. _Please let Nah be alive, please let me be wrong, I'll do anything, I'll serve you for eternity, I'll be my father's daughter and never touch a bow or sword or talisman again, I'll be as saintly as you like, I'll forsake my mother's name and ties to Grima, I'll let you have everything, everything, everything, even my life, if that meant you let Nah live_.

Her mother had always called her father a fool for believing in Naga's mercy. She'd been right.

"I wanted…" Noire's voice was pitchy and uneven. She had to take a deep breath, and she flushed in embarrassment at his worried eyes and undivided attention. She hated how he made everyone feel like the center of the world when he talked to them. He hated how he made everyone feel special. Because it made her feel inexplicably ordinary.

"It's okay," he said to her gently, taking her hand. She stared at it, the warmth of his fingers sending prickling jolts up her arms and down her legs. Her heart was thudding rapidly. "We'll find Nah and bring her home. And also, I won't let Kjelle touch her, if that's what you're worried about. I know you're angry with her."

"She's a fool," Noire spat, stiffening in a fit of rage. Before she could continue on with her vicious words, she relaxed in a daze as Owain's callused thumb caressed her knuckles, idle and thoughtless. His eyes were cast down at his legendary blade.

"You're right to be angry, and you're right to defend Nah, but you must remember that Kjelle is just as right to be suspicious. We've had too may turncoats."

_She's dead_, Noire wanted to tell him. _She's dead, and Kjelle is poisoning her name with awful words and awful thoughts_.

"There is a difference between suspicion and paranoia," Noire told him quietly. "One is evidential and one is senseless." She tore her hand from his and strode away, tears blinding her. He was leader, yes, but that did not mean he was without his share of flaws, and she knew he could never understand how time and fate worked against them.

When they finally came upon her body, Noire regretted it. As Owain sunk to his knees, bewildered and swept up in a great ocean swell of grief, she regretted not telling him. Nah's body was upright, half-buried in a careful arrangement of flowers, and she looked so serene and alive. To think she could be dead beneath that ageless face and shroud of flowers felt wrong. Irrationally wrong. How could she be dead?

Noire remembered Nowi.

"RAWR!" The little dragon had a tendency to capture Noire from behind and heft her up, burying her face in her hair as she shrieked. Her mother hardly ever spared them a glance. "I'M GONNA EAT YOU!"

Nah had been too tiny to remember. She grew too slowly. But Nowi was singularly the most enthusiastic person Noire had ever known, which was saying a lot. She'd swung Noire around and around until her stomachs did flips, and she burst into a fit of giggles.

"Tharja!" Nowi would sing. "I'm kidnapping your daughter! You gonna do something about it?"

"You can keep her."

Noire's laughter had been ceaseless, and she kicked at the air, laughing and moaning. "Mother, help…"

Her mother, with her dark eyes and dark hair and dark skin and dark clothing, stared at Noire for a moment. Then she turned way, gathering up a tome and waving Nowi off.

Nowi cackled in Noire's ear, chanting, "You're mine, you're mine, you're all mine!"

She'd then be deposited in a room to play a game Nowi had made up called Slay the Dragon. Noire had to "kill" Nowi, who declared herself a fearsome, ugly old dragon, and save Nah, who was a cursed princess locked in a tower— her cradle. The game made up some of Noire's best memories.

Nah's corpse was mocking them.

Noire had woken up once to a loud crash. She had not stirred, but instead cracked an eye open to observe her mother's dark silhouette hunched over the table where she often did her conjuring, hexing, cursing, spellbinding madness. She was leaning against it for support, tomes on the floor, phials spilt over, cracked or shattered, various substances collecting in the grooves of the floorboards or dripping off the corners of the tables. Her chest rose and fell in a quick succession of heavy breaths, her beautiful black hair curtaining her face, and Noire had stared in wonder, for she had never seen her mother in such a state before. Her father stood behind her, giving her some space, his long face slightly pained.

"Tharja," her father had murmured as her mother shook. "That's enough."

Her mother whirled on her father, glossy tresses flying against the air and whipping her cheeks as she marched up to him and shoved him into a wall so hard the crash vibrated through the floor and up into Noire's mattress so that she could feel the strength of her mother's rage.

"Is it?" her mother snapped. "Is it enough? How could you know that, Libra, when you've done nothing but pray to your silly goddess for their souls?"

If her father had been hurt by her words, he did not show it. He leaned against the wall, his pale hair loose around his shoulders, framing his lovely face and his tired eyes. Noire wanted to crawl out of bed and run to him, to get between him and her mother's wrath, but she was too scared.

"What happened was unfair," he said quietly. "But do not take it out on Naga."

"You did not see the bodies, so do no presume you can tell me who I can and cannot blame." Her mother had still been shaking. Her voice had been thick and sharp and disgusted. "Naga is just as powerful as Grima, and yet she does not lift even a glorified pinky to aid those who have faith in her. She could have saved Nowi and Ricken, but she didn't. She let Grima rip them to pieces."

Noire had sat up. Nowi and Ricken? She had not seen them in ages, not since Chrom and Robin had died and she'd been taken from the castle. She remembered feeling bemused and afraid. Nowi had always been so fun, and an almost constant presence in Noire's childhood. Ricken had been her tutor at one point, and Noire remembered that he'd looked very young, but sounded very wise. Like Nah. Undeniably like Nah. In fact, her bookish, supportive, nurturing nature had come from her father. Anyone who had known Ricken could see him in his daughter.

"Your anger is justified," Libra whispered. "Your pain is understandable. But you are placing the blame on the wrong dragon. It was Grima who killed Nowi and Ricken, and whether Naga could stop it or not is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" Tharja's voice was cold, and her shaking ceased. "You think she's flawless, don't you? Well fine. Think what you want. You're right, it doesn't change that Nowi's in several pieces and Ricken was found stripped of his skin. It doesn't really _matter_ that it didn't have to happen, does it?"

"I am sad too!" Libra pushed off the wall, and Noire jumped, for she'd never really heard her father shout before. "I was a friend of both Ricken and Nowi. I want nothing more than to go back and save them from the terrible things Grima did to them, but I can't! I don't care if Naga could have saved them, because they're gone now and there's nothing we can do about it. You are focusing all your energy on hating Naga out of speculation that maybe she ignored Nowi and Ricken when you should be using that rage to combat Grima's influence. Do not forget, Tharja, it is _your_ god who kill them, not mine."

Dead?

Noire could not wrap her head around it.

"You don't understand," her mother said heatedly. "You're making excuses."

"No, _you_ are." Her father took quick steps to close the distance between himself and her mother, and he took Tharja's face in his hands. "You're trying to cope. I know you cared for Nowi, and I know that this is difficult for you. So let's not argue any longer about our gods, and instead focus on what's really bothering you. You could not protect her, and that frightens you."

She smacked his hands away, but Noire could tell his words had shaken her. That was disconcerting. Nothing shook her mother.

She'd been silent for a minute or so. And then, hugging her chest, she'd raised her chin very high and said in a small, chilly voice, "I did not know you had that capacity for cruelness, Libra."

Her father's face had suddenly become stricken with doubt and guilt.

"Mother?" Noire called, pushing her blankets back and swinging her little feet over the edge of her bed. She remembered how stark and cold the room had been, how concoctions dripped over the edge of the table, a steady sound that beat at the vacuous silence. It was coupled only by the sound of her uneven breaths. Her chest ached in fear for her mother, who was in pain, and that meant something unimaginable to Noire. It meant that anyone could be hurt.

Love was the ruination of human existence.

"Mother…" She'd treaded carefully up to her parents, her nightdress pooling around her ankles, and she'd looked at them confusedly.

Her mother turned her face down at Noire, dark and shadowy, smooth and beautiful, and her dark eyes were as bleak and hard as coal, glimmering subtly and gleaming like glass. She looked fearsome and faded.

"Go back to sleep, Noire. This is nothing."

"But," Noire had breathed, "Nowi… you said Nowi's dead…"

Her father swept toward her, kneeling before her and staring into her eyes. "Do not be sad, little one. They've gone to be with Naga now." Her mother had turned her face sharply away from them. "Come here."

She gravitated uncertainly toward him. He wrapped her in a tangle of arms, her breath stolen as she was buried in his chest, and she thought about crying but she didn't feel that there was a point to that, and so she let herself sink into his embrace, thinking to herself that there was an emptiness to the news of death that could not be filled by simple sobbing and comforting words.

That was why she didn't mind when her mother turned from them and strode away.

If Noire was anything like her mother, it was great empty space within her, a hollowness that grew with every death and every muffled sob in the dark. She had to close herself from them, even though she was them, for she could not take the immense emptiness as it was. She had to fill herself with something. Maybe that was why she had vicious spouts of anger.

"What…?" Inigo uttered from her side, his smile wavering as the revelation came upon him that Nah was not, in fact, sleeping soundly in a blanket of flowers. "Oh… no, what…?"

He sensed it too. The dark magic here. The nature stirring in unrest, disturbed and reeling from the bending of elements.

"Nah!" Cynthia lurched forward, her boots carving a serpentine path through the long grass, and Noire and Inigo shrieked in objection. In shock, Cynthia tripped and fell, skidding and rolling and gasping. Noire ran after her, her heart… her heart gone, left to drift away into nothing as he chest became an empty cavity. She flung herself between her friends and Nah's beautiful corpse.

"Don't touch her," she gasped, flinging her arms out.

Cynthia sat up, dirt smearing her cheek and her delicately swirling armor, and she scowled up at Noire. Her pigtails were slipping around her ears, soft curls dancing around her tearful eyes.

"Why not?" Kjelle snapped, marching up to Noire. "We need to check if she's alive."

"She's dead," Noire said, her voice trembling. "She's dead…"

"Noire, get out of the way."

"No!" Noire spread her arms wider, gritting her teeth in frustration. "You don't understand!"

"Get out of the way. That's an _order_."

"You are not the exalt!" Noire snapped, her voice booming across the clearing, ripping the breeze to shreds and carving anxiety into them. "Owain is our leader, Kjelle, not you! You cannot order me, you cannot—!" She threw her head back, laughter tearing from her lips and scratching deeply at her throat. It hurt so much, and she could not take it. She wanted it all to be emptied out of her.

"Gods." Kjelle grimaced. "You've gone completely mad, Noire. Stand aside."

Noire was breathless. Blood and thunder, blood and thunder, blood and thunder, and yet she was crumbling like charcoal, brittle and breakable and brimming with uncertainty. They could not touch Nah. She knew that.

"Get out of the way, Noire," Cynthia exhaled, her brow pinching.

No one else spoke up. Yarne was hiding his face in his hands, Brady looked a little traumatized, his eyes cast toward the sky as he leaned against his staff. His eyes were shiny and dim. Owain still knelt, his arms half-buried in the grass, and Inigo was looking just as uncertain and horrified as she was.

He knew too.

"Inigo," Noire gasped, "tell them!"

"What?" he blurted, appalled that she was addressing him.

"Tell them why, tell them! Nah's body cannot be moved!"

"I…" He looked so uncomfortable. What good was he?

"Coward," she spat at him, whirling to face Nah and unhooking her bow, grasping it with shaky hands and breathing deeply.

"Noire, what are you doing?" Cynthia cried, tears streaking her face. "Stop that!"

"I swear, Noire," Kjelle growled, "I'll cut you down if I have to."

"Fools," Noire muttered, drawing an arrow from her quiver, a grimy black carrion crow's feathers tickling her fingertips as she notched it. The drawstring made her muscles whine as she took quick aim, listening to the shouts of her distraught friends, and her eyesight went in and out of focus, her emotional state flickering like a candle against a storm.

She released the arrow, the recoil a familiar sting, and she watched it sail through the air, spiraling and zooming until it fond its way between Nah's closed eyes— and it splintered apart, the arrowhead exploding and the shaft becoming nothing but slivers of wood that began to burn and cinder and rapidly eat itself out of existence the moment it hit the soft white petals of Naga's bell, the flower that sat innocently in Nah's lap.

A gentle breeze sang through the grass as they all stared at their tiny friend's corpse, at her endless existence, realizing the enormity of what Noire had just proved.

She turned to face them, her expression grim.

"Cut me down," she snapped at Kjelle. "If you truly want to die so badly, cut me down and try and move Nah's corpse. I dare you! Ha!" Noire brushed past Kjelle, laughing and shaking and blinking as she reached Owain's side. She touched his shoulder gingerly, her laughter guttering out, and she bowed her head. "We can't do anything for her now."

Owain shrugged her off, rising to his feet and avoiding her eye. It hurt. Her eyes were wide as she stared at his back. He took quick, even steps to the tree, and everyone's voice seemed to erupt at once. He skirted around Nah's body, however, and leapt at the lowest branch, catching it with ease and hefting himself up, his leg swinging idly as he observed Nah's shrine from above. He pulled a dagger from his boot.

They watched as the dagger bit into the bark of the tree, carving large, thick strokes into its face. They stared. Noire found herself sitting in the grass, watching vacantly as he worked away at the tree, deep gouges appearing and forming letters. Inigo sat beside her, looking distant and stunned. Perhaps he had forgotten. His nature was not simply to dance and perform. They shared Plegian blood, and they shared the innate sense for dark magic the moment it tinged the air.

It was nearly nightfall before Owain was done. He'd carved words and accents into the bark, making it look as natural and beautiful as he could manage with the time constraints, and by the time he was done, his hair stuck to his forehead and his fingers raw and smeared red, the skin shredded from them. He did not jump down from the tree. He slumped in a branch, resting his cheek against the mighty trunk, and he did not move.

In the dying light of day, the carvings lit up in a yellowish glow, and Nah's auburn hair burned like copper igniting, and the flowers that blanketed her looked radiant in their perpetual vigil. Her expression was so peaceful, and it made Noire want to puke.

She knew who did this.

They all knew who did this.

But in the sunset, Nah was sleeping. That was enough.

NAH

DAUGHTER TO DRAGONS

MILLENNIA FOR THE GIRL WHO CANNOT BE MOVED

As night fell, they all made their beds in the grass, watching the stars in their myriad, a thousand, a million, a billion, freckling the bruised sky and winking sadly.

"I'm sorry," Kjelle whispered to Noire. She looked tired and worn. She had been the first to cry for their lost friend, curling into the ground and muffling the sound into her hands. Brady had been the next, but his sobs were loud and ugly, and he'd left them quickly after that had begun. Yarne cried shakily, and Inigo sat beside him, patting his back. He met Noire's eye.

"It's okay," Noire murmured. She looked to the shadow that was Nah's corpse. And she hated Morgan for stealing her millennia away.

The grief had not settled in yet. They were all still empty of emotion and trying to fill it in with words and tears.

A counterattack was necessary.

Noire stood up and wandered away from the group of them, wandering around and away, peering in the darkness and blinking as the breeze tickled her bare neck and whistled through the grass and the flowers. Fireflies glowed in an uneven rhythm, dancing around her and blinking like the stars above.

"Hey."

She turned her face at an angle to stare at Inigo, his dark skin so smooth and his hair so neat and his eyes so bloodshot. Had he cried? He looked a little like Nah. Perfect and dead.

"I want to kill Morgan," she whispered.

He was stepping with an awkward gait, and he stopped to stare at her. Fireflies drifted around him, splashing shadows across his dark skin and carving lines into his snowy hair. He did not smile and he did not speak and he did not make a gesture that might suggest that he was Inigo, and not some Risen taken over him.

"I want to kill Morgan, and I want it to be slow and agonizing. I want to peel his skin from his muscles and make him eat the little strips. I want to rip him to shreds, and then scatter him across Plegia so everyone will know that the fell dragon's son was just a human like them, and there is nothing divine about him." Noire took a breath, and she clapped a firefly in her palms, cupping them so it knocked against the enclosed space, trapped and panicked. She smashed her palms together, feeling the last squirmy moments of the insect as it crunched and splattered. She rubbed her hands together finely, and then flipped them over, staring at the luminescent smear of some poor beetle's viscera as it sunk into the folds of her skin. "I want to crush him like the spineless little vermin he is."

Inigo's eyes moved from her face to her glowing hands, and then back.

"I'll help you," he said.

They stared at each other vacantly.

"Wait," she said, her voice softening in disbelief, "really?"

He nodded. And then, astonishingly, he smiled. It was the most frightening smile she'd ever seen, and it looked misplaced on Inigo's face.

"Morgan is clearly very gifted in dark magic," Inigo said. "It'd be difficult to oppose him. But you and I are the children of two of the most powerful, most unhinged mages of their generation. If nothing else, we may as well serve their legacy well."

At heart Noire was a hunter and at heart he was a dancer and at heart neither of them knew how to live up to the standard their parents had set, Noire with her pious father and her wicked mother, Inigo with his talented mother and his ruthless father. They were children of blood and sweetness.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she whispered. She did not have the touch for dark magic— she understood it fine, but she could not hex to save her life.

But Inigo was more confident than she was.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Absolutely."

Noire remembered Nah, and she imagined what the girl might say if she knew what they were planning. She'd likely advise them to use caution, and try to supervise whatever magic they conjured up. Always the responsible one. But she was gone. She was gone, and Noire did not understand how to cope with this, because it made her feel utterly empty, and she wanted to cry but she could not manage it somehow, because it did not seem real, and she was so dazed and bemused.

All she wanted was to find Nah in the woods, kneeling in the dead leaves and the twigs, and praying to some goddess that would not answer her. To sit beside the girl and watched her lips move soundlessly, feeling at peace for once as the world calmed and her anxiety melted away. All she wanted was for Nah to crack her eye open and smile in spite of herself, and scoot aside to allow Noire to sit closer. All she wanted was braid and rebraid Nah's soft auburn hair, to blow it into the girl's face and laugh when it caught on her nose and her eyes crossed childishly to stare at it.

All she wanted was Nah's presence.

Morgan's pain would probably suffice.

A counterattack.

Noire stared at her hands, and she knelt down, wiping her sticky palms in the grass. Her mind was reeling, and tears stung her eyes. She was filling the void with anger, and she hated herself for it.

Morgan deserved the worst kind of death.

_You don't even know that it was him_, a voice in her head whispered.

She didn't need to know for sure, because it was written in the taunting display, the shrine for the little lost dragon, the flowers and the tranquility.

Love was the ruination of human existence.

Her mother had taught her that.

* * *

><p>She'd washed her eyes and her mouth out so many times, but she could not clean the lies from her tongue or scrub off the blood clinging to her lashes. She'd done too much. She'd done too much, and it was becoming abundantly clear that she had broken everyone and everything, and there was no way to stop it.<p>

Morgan had not left his room in days.

"He's resting from the journey," she told the rest when they asked. They could not see the weakness in him.

Of course he was weak. He hardly spoke to her when she came in to check on him, and he spent his days busying himself with tomes and books and strategy, and she was jealous and disgusted, for she could not figure out how he did it. She was unhappy and unhinged, and she figured they all knew it, so why pretend?

She wanted her father.

He'd know what to do.

_He left us_, she reminded herself, sitting on her bed and glancing at her reflection in the mirror. _He left me. He never supported mother or Grima, he would have just abandoned us, or killed us if he knew_.

In her very deepest of hearts, she knew that was a lie, and she knew that her father had loved her unconditionally.

How worthless that had been.

She wanted to turn back time and escape from Grima and Naga and her father and her fate. She wanted to sleep for a thousand years like a dragon and abandon everything just to have some peace. But she was not that person. She'd made her choice when she'd chosen Morgan. She would not let doubts dissuade her.

Sometimes she felt as though she was going insane. Grima's influence could not wash away her sins, and Grima could not convince her that the lives she was taking in her crusade meant nothing. She was aching on the inside knowing what she did and how wrong it was, but she did it anyway because she didn't know how to stop and she knew she couldn't stop.

She could not stand herself for letting herself become a tool for fate to carve out the future and bleed the earth dry. She was so sick of it.

"Worlds are meant to be destroyed." Her mother had appeared while Lucina had been sitting in a daze. "You know that humans are awful, so why continue defending them?"

"I don't know."

Sometimes she thought she could hear her father's voice beating at her back like a furious wind, and it made her want to rip her skin off.

Her mother wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on Lucina's shoulder. "Your brother failed me," she whispered.

Lucina's eyes widened.

"No," she said. "No, he did what he was told. He killed Nah."

"Perhaps. Perhaps it was his hand that dealt the blow, but the intent was never his. It was mine." Her mother nuzzled her cheek, and she laughed. "Lucina, darling, you know I love you, right?"

"Of course, mother."

"Then don't fail me like your brother did. The exalt and his little band of misfits, they're you're enemy. Treat them as such." Grima slid from the bed, and they stretched their arms. Their silver hair slipped against their dark cheeks as they turned their head back to glance down at her. "If you bear any love for that spineless lot, then kill them quickly. Or I'll make their deaths the most agonizing spectacle to ever be performed."

Her heart had stuttered in shock, and she'd nodded distantly.

"Yes, mother."

Yes. Of course. She loved them, so she must put an end to their suffering before it began. There was no room for them in Grima's future. Morgan had loved Nah, and of course Lucina knew it— it was not difficult to see. Everyone knew it. But that love had not spared her. In fact, it had merely driven him to be the one to claim her life.

Lucina had to be the same as Morgan.

She had to be brave and strike before it was too late.

Quick deaths for them all.

For herself, she could suffer. For Morgan…

She had other plans.

"Up!" She kicked Severa's door open, tossing her a shirt as she sat up groggily, nothing to cover her breasts but her unruly brown hair as her blanket slipped away. Severa stared at her vacantly. Lucina marched on, kicking in Laurent's door, and then Gerome's. "Up! Get up!"

Finally she came to Morgan's room. She stared at the doorknob, her fingers itching to grasp it. She turned away and walked on.

"What's all this about?" Severa grumbled.

"We're going to catch Owain by surprise," Lucina said, raising her chin high. "We're going to attack him while he and the others are grieving over Nah, and kill them. Understood?"

They stared at her. Blank, tired eyes. Even Gerome looked unsure.

"That's the plan?" Severa asked briskly. "Just… attack?"

"A coordinated attack, fine. We cannot let this opportunity slip away!" Lucina slammed her palms against the table as they gathered closer around her. "We are outnumbered, but we are not pariahs. We need only say the word to make them true outlaws. And when that happens, they'll be reduced to nothing, scrambling to find food and shelter. When we strike, it'll be a mercy."

Gerome nodded in agreement while Laurent looked at her curiously and Severa merely averted her gaze.

"I will give the decree in the morning," Laurent said. "But, Lucina, use caution. We may very well be strong, however we are only but four. You must remember that we will need to go up against them, and the odds…"

"We will win," Lucina said simply.

"But at what cost?"

She glanced at him. She smiled, and she shook her head. "I am not concerned," she said. "Grima is with us. That is all the reassurance you need."

"Of course, Lucina." Laurent bowed his head reverently, and Gerome followed the suit. Severa simply stared. Lucina eyed her.

"Of course, Lucina," Severa echoed, her voice thin and venomous as she bowed her head in submission. It was amazing what a little fear and adoration could do.

"And… what of Morgan?" Gerome asked hesitantly. Of course he was hesitant. None of them wanted to push the topic too far, but how could they not? Did Lucina even blame them? There was no real explanation for the way Morgan was acting, except that he was grieving for the girl he'd killed. Which was probably plain to see to any of them. How was she supposed to fix this?

"He will not be joining us." Lucina smoothed her hair back, thinking to herself that she was the ruler of a thousand fools, and the sister to the greatest one of all. She thought of her father. The daughter of a fool fated to rule a world of fools. Amazing. "I do not trust his mental state."

"That's rich," Severa murmured.

"I've come to accept my brother's flaws," Lucina declared, her chin raising high. "He loves too much. It is admirable. Would you like to know why?"

"Certainly," Laurent said, watching her intently. _He's not really here for you_, a voice in her head hissed, nagging and digging at her. _He's only here because of Grima's influence. They're all only here because of Grima's influence. And you know it. You know it!_

She smiled at them warmly.

"Because Morgan does exactly what he's told."

They stared at her, Severa's eyes widening momentarily in fear, Gerome watching her like she was a goddess bathed in flesh and constructed out of pure rays of light, and Laurent with a knowing expression, one that could not be read or explained, and she loathed him for it.

Sometimes she questioned whether or not they'd follow her to the ends of the earth.

Sometimes she thought she'd be better off without them.

But for now, she needed them.

For now. For now they'd live and adore her and fear her and fight.

And she'd let them. She'd let them go and fall and die if that was what it took.

For Grima. For her mother.

And for her father…

For her father, she'd leave the world an ashen, barren husk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Truthfully, he found the entire idea of dark magic distasteful. It was such a messy affair, and so volatile and ugly— there was no real art to the madness, no reason or rhythm, it was really just terrible, a true cacophony beating in his head and in his chest when he attempted to contain it. He held a book in his hands, and he read the words, and he told himself that this was what he wanted.

But nothing ever happened.

He didn't will it to happen.

He didn't want it.

But here he was, floundering to understand the small selection of dark tomes they actually had. They were Noire's, keepsakes from her mother, and she actually _understood_ them. She tried to explain to him that he wasn't trying, and he argued, as sweetly as possible, that he _was_, he really, really was! But she merely stared at him, her lips thin and her expression somber. Little niches carved out into her dark forehead, and it was sad to him, because he'd been the one to suggest this.

He weighed the tome in his hand. It was so much heavier than a sword and shield. It was so…

Nostalgic.

The tome was dusty and too heavy for his tiny arms, but he'd shimmied it from its place on the shelf and let it spill open on the floor, hastily glancing over his shoulder, scared of smiles and scared of frowns, scared that the book would unlock something within him that he didn't know he had, and scared, simply, because he didn't know what he wanted. He pressed a finger to the scrawled words, mouthing them slowly and taking a deep breath before speaking them aloud, testing the sound of them inside his mouth. His voice shook, and his lips quivered.

"You're thinking too much."

His heart stopped, stopped— but oh, not really. It sunk in his chest, because for a moment he'd forgotten where he was. In the dim lamp light it was easy to mistake her delicate features— her smooth jaw line and straight nose, her soft mouth and thickly lashed eyes, her pale hair cropped and feathery around her dark face— for his father's.

She looked at him, and all he heard was his father's eerie laugh as it filled the old study and sent Inigo into a state of pure shock.

"You're thinking too much!" his father had laughed, swooping down and pointing past his flushed cheek toward the tome beneath him. "You're reading the words, but you're not feeling them. Just let it happen."

Inigo had sat on his bare feet, his hands on his knees as he stared pitifully at the tome, unable to look his father in the eye. He was ashamed and scared. He didn't think he could do it, and his father… oh, he knew all about his father. Henry was feared and revered, and everyone looked at Inigo and he saw it in their eyes. Pity.

They pitied him. Because they thought his father was insane.

"You're such a sweet, shy little thing," they'd coo, looking sad and nervous. "How on earth did such a nice boy like you come from that?"

He was ashamed.

He was ashamed to be ashamed.

He loved his father very much, and it was unnerving how understanding he actually was. Whenever Inigo felt he was doing something wrong, his father had encouraged him. Whenever he was scared, his father had inspired him.

But Inigo wanted nothing to do with his father. His father had been frightening and cruel, and he had not really done a thing for Inigo in the end. It had always been his mother who had pulled him out of his shell, who taught him what it was to live and breathe. His father just taught him how to kill and die.

Noire watched him in silence.

He was doing it all wrong.

Tears of shame stung his eyes.

His father would be so disappointed.

_No_, Inigo thought, taking a deep breath and uttering the hex again. _He'd be happy and smiling and he'd say, "Oh wow, Inigo, that's amazing! I'm so proud of you for trying!" _

What a joke.

"No, really," Noire sighed. "You're doing it wrong. You're saying it wrong."

"H-how…?" He bit his tongue as he stammered. No. None of that. "How on earth am I supposed to say it?"

"Not like that."

"Well, my dear, that is positively the most helpful advice I've ever received."

"You're mispronouncing it on purpose."

"I am not!"

She sighed once more, looking reproachful yet stern. How very much like his mother she was. How very much like his father.

How very nice this plan turned out to be.

They'd left Nah's corpse. Abandoned it, really. Oh, Inigo didn't really know if he knew Nah all that well. He'd always felt uncomfortable with his own flirtatious habits around her, nagging himself that she was a child, a child, but then that wasn't really true. They were the same age, and she was quick to remind him of that.

Had been quick. Because she was dead.

Damn it.

"I _am_ trying," he insisted, staring into Noire's eyes. "You believe me, don't you?"

"No."

He lowered his head and tried not to look too dejected. He stared at the page he'd been pouring over, and he tried to think, tried to focus, tried to energize the very words that were inked into the yellowed text, but nothing. Nothing worked. It was absolutely hopeless.

Magic was so different from anything else he knew how to do. He was a man for physicality, and magic made his mind feel like mush. It was absurd and outlandish, and yet he felt it. He felt it there, stinging his back, grasping him and shaking him firmly, because yes. He was part of it as it was part of him. He could not shake it.

How the hell was he supposed to use this thing that entangled him?

He just didn't know.

"Maybe we should take a break," Noire offered. Inigo exhaled. Yes, that sounded nice. A nice break. Nice.

"Okay!" he chirped, jumping to his feet and leaving her to her old tomes and her foul memories.

They were both scars left by their parents on the surface of the world. How shameful.

He wandered into camp, his mind wandering back to the serene expression on Nah's face when they'd found her corpse resting against the tree. He'd known. He'd sensed the poison in that beautiful display the moment he'd set foot on the grass, the moment he'd tasted the wicked breeze. He'd known the hex cast upon her, and he'd known that she'd been dead for a good while before they'd arrived.

Magic was in his blood.

He wished it wasn't.

He wished his mother had chosen someone else for a husband, someone far more attune with their sanity. He wished he'd been a swordmaster's son, a mercenary's son, a merchant's son, a lord's son, any son of any man, just not the sorcerer that had sired him. He didn't like the burden that came with Henry's legacy, and he didn't like that it made him feel tainted. He didn't like that his father had been sweet and kind, but the mark he'd made had scarred Inigo's perception of the world.

He felt as though he was blaming the wind for a hurricane.

"Hello, Yarne." Inigo beamed at his friend as he plopped down by the fire. Yarne glanced up at him, and in the firelight he looked like a corpse, gaunt and hollow-eyed.

"Hi, Inigo," Yarne said. How resigned he was! _He needs to smile_, Inigo thought wildly. _I'm going to make him smile_.

"You're sitting awfully close to the fire," Inigo pointed out. Yarne's eyes suddenly lit up, and he shrieked, toppling backwards off the log he'd been lounging on. Inigo quickly got to his feet and leaned over him, observing his disgruntled expression. "Are you alright down there?"

"You saved my life!" Yarne gasped, rolling onto his hands and knees. "Inigo, you _saved_ me!"

He took great gratification out of his exclamation. "Oh," he laughed, "it was really nothing. But do me a favor, will you, Yarne?" He helped Yarne to his feet, taking him by the arms and steadying him as he swayed uncertainly.

"Yes, yes," Yarne murmured, shaking his head furiously. "Yes, of course, anything!"

"Chin up," Inigo said brightly, knocking his chin higher with the knuckle of his forefinger. "Smile. You know that's what Nah would want."

Yarne looked stunned. He tried to smile, but it just looked like a sad, anguished tremor against his lips.

_Do I need to teach him how?_ Inigo thought vacantly. "Ah," he laughed, patting Yarne on the back. "Yeah, we'll work on that. Do you want to talk about it?"

Yarne shuffled in place, his eyes lowering toward the ground. "Inigo, you know I try my best, right? I don't want to be a burden to anyone, even… even though I'm really scared, you know, of extinction and stuff."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Yeah." Yarne sniffed, and he sat down tentatively, this time far away from the flames. Inigo followed the suit. "Well I was just thinking… Nah was never scared. She never once seemed afraid of anything, and she always tried to help all of us, and always kept us where we ought to be, and I'm just thinking, you know, that we really ought to be more like her. She had to have known she was facing death by going to Morgan. But she did it." Yarne's eyes were glistening in the glow of the flames. "We… we really… need to be braver, don't you think?"

_Nah was not brave_, Inigo bit back. _She was sad and in love, and that blinded her._

He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear the thought of it. Nah's bravery had always been an act, and he could see it fine, because he was the troop's most talented performer, and he knew the act like he knew sweet words and sweet lies. Nah was a child. He was convinced that she was a child, even though he knew, he knew, he knew they were the same age. It was just… difficult. He didn't know how to let go. So he avoided it.

"Perhaps," he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He didn't want to seem too doubtful, of course. He couldn't be suspicious. He couldn't have Yarne know how sad he was. "But frankly, I do think that there is a right and wrong way to go about bravery, don't you?"

Yarne glanced at him, his eyes widening minutely, and then he shook his head fast. "I'm not following."

He wanted someone to tell him all the answers.

What was right and what was wrong?

His father had certainly never known.

"Well," Inigo explained hastily, "I just don't see why you'd want to change. It's perfectly okay for you to run away." He was smiling, beaming feeling emptier and emptier as he forced good feelings into every word. He was perfectly amiable and perfectly charming. Yes. He knew it. He was glad to use it. "I only mean, well, it's reliable. You instinctively run when your life is in danger, Yarne, that's a good thing."

"But I'm a coward," Yarne croaked, eyes big, shoulders slumping. "I'm a big fat coward! Nah would be so disappointed—"

"Oh, bullshit," Inigo scoffed. "Nah would not care in the slightest. Your survival would be her main concern, and you know you're fine there. Don't bring Nah into it just because she's too dead to object now. She'd be insulted."

Yarne stared. The markings on his off-color face stood starkly in the firelight, and when he turned a certain way, he looked almost fierce. "Maybe you're right," he whispered.

"Of course I'm right." _Or maybe I'm wrong,_ he thought. _But you don't need to know that. Just listen to me and be happy, okay?_ "I really think there's a sort of bravery to cowardice, don't you? There is knowing when to fight, but having the courage to know when you've been bested? It's admirable."

Yarne glanced at him, and he had a peculiar look in his eyes, the sort of doubt that made Inigo severely uncomfortable, for he felt as though something was about to give, and he was hardly prepared for confrontation. He wasn't sure if he could handle it.

"Are you just trying to make me feel better?" Yarne asked weakly.

"What?" Inigo blinked at him wildly, making it apparent he was taken aback. "I'm not cruel, Yarne, I just want to be honest with you."

He looked disturbingly disbelieving, and that was a blow to Inigo's ego. He didn't want to think about how compulsively he lied, or how his nature was to do anything it took to make the people around him happy and comfortable with him and themselves. It was an awful feeling, realizing he'd failed.

He glanced around the camp, hopelessly trying to find a way to change the subject. "Did everyone else turn in already?"

"Huh?" Yarne blinked. "Oh, no. Owain sent Brady, Kjelle, and Cynthia to scout for the nearest town, since we're low on supplies. He's in his tent now, I think. If you want to talk to him."

"I think I will," Inigo said thoughtfully, glancing into the fire and watching the flames writhe. "But… Yarne, please. I'm really not kidding when I say I think you're brave. Don't let yourself be fooled, okay? Only fools die of excessive bravery."

"Are you calling Nah a fool?" Yarne asked sharply.

"No, of course not!" Inigo winced at his mishap. He was lying, he was perfectly fine with calling Nah a fool. Because she'd been one. But he knew well that he was just as at fault. "I just think you're smart, for all your self-preservation. We should all learn from your example."

"Don't be stupid…" Yarne muttered. "There's nothing brave about running away."

_There's nothing honorable about it, certainly_, Inigo thought, his eyes focusing on the fierce flow of flames as they stretched themselves to their limit and ached to reach the stars. He felt their struggle, how endless and agonizing it was, to be so vivacious and so willing to be something more, only to be stuck and stifled by environments that threatened to quell him.

"There's nothing cowardly about living, either," Inigo said, closing his eyes.

"Inigo," his mother once had to utter in the most inexplicably broken, yet solid voice. "Inigo, can you come here?"

He'd known what had been coming. He'd known from the moment his father had awoken after a week of comatose helplessness. He'd known from the frightful screams, the restless, hopeless shouting that had expelled from the man, the vicious words that had spilt from his shriveled lips, from his crooked, tearful smile. He'd known when he'd watched his father fumble and stumble and crash upon his face, for his legs no longer seemed to work correctly, and the healers had been a little too late.

"Inigo, can you come here?"

His mother hadn't been there— she'd been assigned to a different regiment somewhere up north. He'd been at camp, waiting, waiting, waiting, drumming thoughtfully on a marching drum, when they'd returned with haunted faces and a stretcher that held his father, bleeding out and not even happy about it. It had been so surreal. Inigo had thought it all a spectacular joke. He'd laughed, in fact, when he'd been told his father might not wake up. "Did he tell you to tell me that?" he'd asked.

"Inigo, come here. Please."

Henry had been part of some mission or another in a manor that Sumia had dubbed the Manor of Lost Souls, which Inigo felt was something Owain would call it. He didn't understand why the name was so apt until he realized there were many people who had not returned. Nowi and Ricken. Oh, how jealous he'd been of Nah. How hopelessly jealous he'd been that his father had bare knuckled affections for her, clearly favoring her intelligence, her willingness to experiment, her audacity. She was a manakete, and a baby in truth, but Henry had no qualms about offering to teach her dark magic. Inigo had been jealous of her because…

He did not dare love his father so shamelessly.

It was funny, looking back. He was so shameless now, and yet he still could not do his father any good.

"Inigo, please. I don't want to shout… don't make me shout…"

Ricken and Nowi were something very special to Henry, though Inigo had not understood it well. He knew now what that type of friendship was. To be willing to dig your own grave to protect and serve, to do whatever to took to preserve those few special people in your life. He knew. He knew that his father would leave and never return, even then, because that was just the type of person he was. His capacity to love was infinite, but his hatred? It was the most volatile thing in existence.

Something had to give.

"Inigo, look at me. Look at me, I… I need to talk to you, okay? Inigo? Gods! You already know! Don't tell me you already know, please… Inigo… look at me, please…"

He'd known, he'd known, he'd known from the very first, shaky breath his father had drawn upon awakening. It broke into a scream. This man, this father of his, had broken apart in a burst, like tinder collapsing in a fire and embers coughing into the air as the flames suddenly roared and reared, unfurling and devouring itself. His father had screamed his head off, and Inigo had known that he would destroy himself in his anguish.

"Look at me, Inigo, please…"

Laughter and tears. That was what his father had been reduced to. He sang of retribution. Promises he had to keep, you see. Sumia had been there, and she'd tried to tell him that it was fruitless, he was not able enough to do such a thing, he couldn't, he couldn't, but the laughter and the tears, the screams and the smiles, the cracks that slithered across the veneer. It was a lovely, formidable sight, to be sure. Inigo had wanted nothing more than to evaporate from his lowly existence. He was nothing in comparison to his inspirational mother and his indomitable father.

"You… you know, don't you? Your father, he's… well, it's just… that he… oh…"

No one had outright told Inigo what had happened to Nowi and Ricken, but he'd surmised the situation from scraps of information he'd obtained from around camp. Ricken had saved Henry's life by offering to stay behind to hold Grima off while the others, Sumia and Tharja included, retreated with Henry and anyone else who'd been wounded in the battle. It had been a difficult choice. But they had made it. Nowi had broken away from them and stuck by her husband's side. They'd died together. How very romantic. And Henry just… he couldn't bear it.

Inigo wished he could scream and cry and laugh away all his rage at Nah's death. He wished he had that conviction.

"It's hard to say it out loud… I'm not sure how to— how to go about it, there's just… it's a lot, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I… oh. Please, Inigo, won't you give me a smile? I… I… I…"

He'd fled the tent his father had been recovering in. The moment his father had become an incoherent explosion of words and wails and wistful laughter, Inigo had ran from the medical tent and into the tent he and his father had shared before the battle. He'd gathered up all the tomes, all of the ugly books with all their ugly runes and ugly yellowed paper and ugly scratchy-scratchy writing, all their ugly leather covers and all their invaluable knowledge, and he took all that ugliness and purged it from the earth. He flung them all into the fire, one by one by one by one. He'd been scolded, he'd been threatened, he'd been told awful things, but he had not regretted it one bit.

He'd believed whole heartedly that by destroying Henry's tomes, he could save Henry's life.

No tomes, no magic!

No way to fight, no way to die!

Simple!

_We can go home_, he'd thought happily. _We can go home, just me and him and mother. _Nah came in as an afterthought. Sumia had told him that because Henry was very close to Ricken and Nowi, Nah might become part of his family, which he didn't really like much, but he could accept her if it meant that he was her older brother, because that meant he could boss her around and practice being assertive.

He'd been so deluded to think that something so trivial as the lack of offensive or defensive weapons would dissuade his father from his vendetta.

"It's okay, mother," he'd said, giving her his brightest smile. He'd touched her shoulder, and they'd both smiled vacuously.

_He's dead._

All because he couldn't accept that sometimes it was okay to run away.

From a promise.

From a blood thirsty dragon.

Whichever, really.

Either or.

Inigo felt pathetic remembering all this. He just wanted everyone to be safe and happy, but Nah was dead, and he felt… no, not empty, not really, he just felt like he'd missed something, that he needed to grieve in a way that would be completely inconspicuous.

He was sad, but only in the most innate senses. There was no way around it. He was stuck living in a world of tragedy, so the only way he could imagine coping was to project himself as someone who could not be hurt.

"Inigo?" Yarne's voice was distant, and his hand was suddenly wavering in a furious blur before Inigo's eyes. He blinked rapidly, the firelight scorching his retinas, leaving his vision yellow and scarred. "Did… did I upset you?"

"Oh, no," Inigo laughed. "Of course not!" He shot Yarne his best smile, and he got to his feet, the scent of the fire clinging to his nostrils and shooting through his esophagus. He could taste it swirling inside him, crawling up from his lungs and carving away at his innards. "I'm going to go speak to Owain, though, just… really quickly. I need to ask him something."

"Okay," Yarne said, smiling at him minutely.

Inigo got to his feet and turned away. He rubbed his eyes as he left the fire, his eyelids showing him glinting lightning bugs and a sweet dead girl. He was exhausted.

He paused halfway to Owain's tent. He felt a familiar itch, an odd repulsing shudder that ran through him, tickling his spine. He wished this wasn't something he understood, something that just was completely foreign, but the thing about magic was that he really did feel it. He simply could not bear to be a part of it, as it was already a part of him.

He wanted to be a dancer, not a sorcerer.

He wanted to be a performer, not a killer.

Where had they all gone wrong?

"Yarne," he whispered, his fingers twitching as he raised them toward the air. Something terrible was here. He whirled around. "Yarne, douse the fire!"

"What?"

An explosion rocked the camp, fire reaching its trembling limbs toward the winking stars. And the earth beneath him quaked. The sky began to fade away in a vicious swirl of smoke. He was blinded by the miasma. He coughed, his fingers flying to his sword as everything in the world seemed to either be aflame or smoking.

He heard static and felt a tug of energy somewhere within the space near his navel. He clenched his fists, and he closed his eyes. His toes curled as he thought very fast. He couldn't really deal with it. Feeling and thinking and falling.

He gasped in pain, buckling and falling and thinking and feeling, as a sphere of fire tore through the smoke and caught his shoulder. He skidded, his cheek scraping against the dirt, and he batted out the flames hastily, coughing and wincing, coughing and wincing.

_You're doing it wrong_.

He knew he could have dodged that. He'd felt it coming.

He licked his lips, and he sat up, pain racing through his arm and the punch of it reverberating throughout his chest. He used his sword as a crutch for a moment as he caught his breath. He heard shouting, and he felt magic, and he heard the crashing of metal against metal. The familiar twang of an arrow being released soothed his thoughts. He felt the earth rumbling.

Why now? Why couldn't they just let them grieve in peace for just a little while?

He supposed they just didn't care.

"Inigo!" The smoke was beginning to part, and in the great swirl of it, Inigo could see the flash of Owain's features, his dark hair in the shuddering light, the mighty Falchion slicing away at the bog. His blade collided with Gerome's axe. The masked boy was a dark figure curled inside a cape of whispering smoke. His movements echoed the wisps that filtered his steps. "Get up! Come on, you can do it, get—!" Owain had to jump back, his feet clapping hard as the axe was swung to and fro, side to side, vicious strikes by a boy who seemed to have lost all sense of himself.

Inigo sat on his knees, blood and dirt burning one eye and forcing it half shut as he leaned heavily on his sword. His throat and lungs were screaming as they burned.

Just as his father probably had, he supposed, when Grima had finally had enough of his pesky human existence.

He thought of his mother. He wished her death had been so simple and distant from him.

But the fact was, he'd been with his mother when she'd died.

It'd been a night much like this. A field that dropped into the see, great palisades and cliff faces that bore the blood of a hundred dying breaths lost to the sweet hiss and gasps of the sea. His mother… Olivia, with all her grace, and all her soft smiles, soft words, had perished by a blast of dark magic that had billowed against her faint, whispery clothing, jingling the golden bangles and toyed gently with her braids as it consumed her softly, exploding and rippling, and she'd… fallen.

He supposed she'd lost her footing.

Sumia had caught him before he'd leapt after her. He'd sobbed into the neck of the Pegasus, darkness blotting out the stars in his eyes.

Perhaps that was his problem.

Darkness and magic, dancing around each other with vile intentions.

He wiped the blood from his eye, and he rose shakily to his feet. His shoulder objected, aching so very terribly, but he didn't care. He just… he couldn't care. He was beyond that point.

He smiled at Severa as she stepped before him, lowering her chin, smoke gathering around her cheeks and accentuating her pout. He lifted his sword, ignoring how awfully his shoulder ached.

"Lovely as always, Severa," he told her, watching her eyes roll violently.

Two mercenaries with their hearts very much not in the fight. He was excited, in the loosest way possible, to see how this turned out.

She pushed off the ground, and he watched her footing, his eyesight poor but his instincts whetted, and he let his feet guide him away from the great arc of her blade. He whirled, his toes digging into the dirt as he elbowed her in the gut, listening to her gasp, and he smashed his hilt into her face, watching with horror as a laceration appear, ripping a grand chunk of skin from her cheekbone and causing her skin to redden and swell just by contact. He ducked and winced, a ripple of pain slipping along his arm and locking it.

She spat blood, and he slipped away once more as she went in again, her blade glinting in the dim light. He listened to their swords clash, and he pushed back, maneuvering his pelvis and twisting his body in effort to avoid her violent kick at his sternum. It was a dance. She moved forward, he moved back, she launched, he parried, and neither of them wanted any of their strikes to hit home, so it was a half-assed struggle to hit and retaliate.

Owain's pained shout caused that to change.

In Inigo's panic, he caught Severa's arm with his blade, and then punching the open gash to hear her howl, feeling guilty and terrified as she screamed, and as he wrenched her blade from her fist, he smashed her face into the dirt. He leapt over her feebly twitching body, blinking in the cover of darkness and smoke, and he saw the struggle of Owain, his side bright red and his arms no better. He was fumbling with his footing, not graceful, not steady, just trying to stay alive, and Inigo could hear his words.

"It was Nah, Gerome! Nah! Do you honestly think she deserved—" He slid back the Falchion taking a hit, and then another, quick, brutal strikes. "She wanted to help! She only killed Minerva to save me! Why did you—" He was buckling. He jumped away, breathing heavily, and he was tearful in his shouts, breathless in his pleading.

Inigo made a decision.

His feet guided him. He did not need to see where he was going. He felt it.

For once, he let himself feel it.

Darkness and magic. How terrible of things.

He was starting to feel the real, true agony of his shoulder wound. The scent of burnt skin. It was blinding. He threw his sword away, and he grasped a bulky tome. He let that guide him back into the battlefield.

With a new clarity, he could see dances all around him. A distant, fast paced rhythm floated between Noire and Laurent as arrows and fire met in mid air, twangs and trembling evenly matched and explosions kissing the night air. A long, frightful dance of Taguel lashing out, dodging the lightning strikes of the Levin Sword with sharp, calculated steps. Gerome's axe falling, falling, falling, until it cut smoothly, music thudding, a cry like a drum, and that was the final straw.

The tome fell open in his hands, and he felt it, the screams and the blood and the dance of the madness.

He hated it.

He watched his own hand in the swirl of smoke, his fingers splayed, and he breathed in the scent of decay as he exhaled the words.

The dark magic flooded the air, and he watched it, feeling it cloud his eyes and blot out the very stars in the sky, as it spiraled out of control and glided, dancing erratically, until it collided with Gerome's chest and cut through him. It enveloped him, cracking the surface of his mask and leaving him dazed as his axe slipped from his fingers. He was wobbling backwards, eyes wide and darkness constricting him.

Owain leapt to his feet, and the Falchion's blade carved into Gerome in a quick, concise uppercut.

Gerome hit the ground, and darkness kissed his tear-slick cheeks before dispersing gleefully.

Inigo fell to his knees. Someone was screaming.

He pressed his hand to his lips, laughter spilling through his teeth.

He realized that it was him.

Owain stumbled to his side. Lucina was staring at them, her mouth parted, her face stricken. She started toward them, her rage cold and palpable. Inigo leaned into Owain's bloody side, smiling and thinking to himself, _Gerome's gone, Gerome's gone, we did that, we took that from the world, and we call ourselves heroes_.

Noire shouted in shock as a wall of fire erupted between her and Laurent. She turned, and he looked at her. She looked at him. She nodded, and her face contorted in that awful way of hers, and he realized they were alike, in so many different ways that it made him laugh. He laughed, tears blinding him, because he was okay with dying if it meant he didn't have to kill anymore of his friends.

It was going to be okay. He was with Owain, and they'd done this atrocity together. It was going to be okay, because it was what they deserved.

"Lucina, stop."

_Oh no_, Inigo thought, turning his bloody face from Owain's side. Yarne had gotten between them and transformed back, leaving him vulnerable and defenseless. _What is he doing? What is he __**doing**__?_

"Yarne," Owain called faintly. "What are you doing?"

He turned his face to them, stretching out his arms as though that was enough to shield them, and he smiled.

"Run away," he said gently, "okay?"

Owain lurched forward, and Inigo latched his arms around his waist, dragging him back. They could not lose Owain. They simply _couldn't_.

Noire was at their side, and he managed to get to his feet, turning his face away as the Levin Sword found its way to Yarne's gullet. He ignored Owain's screaming, ignored his pleas, ignored the pain and the vacancy, in order to help Noire heft their bloody leader up and drag him from the sight of their fallen friends. He was still holding onto that damn tome, somehow, even after all of this.

They collapsed when they caught sight of a pale blot on the horizon line. Cynthia's Pegasus came swooping down, and she reined the beast in, beaming at them and launching into the success of the scouting, how they had horses and there was a barn they could stay in, and oh, oh, oh…

"Oh," Cynthia exhaled, her smile suddenly lop-sided and empty. "Why are you all so bloody?"

Owain had fallen unconscious. Inigo was cradling his head in his lap, clutching the tome he'd saved for dear life.

Noire spoke, and when her voice hit the air, it was like the most beautiful music, the clash war drums.

"Lucina attacked us," she said faintly. "Yarne and Gerome are dead."

Inigo bowed his head. He swallowed a chuckle, and stifled a scream.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

He was getting used to hiding. He hid behind ancient tomes, the crawling scent of must and dust and aging paper smothering him, he hid behind maps and treatises, connect the dots and scritch-scratch scrawls, cities and details, countries and plans, behind bubbles and water and doors and smiles, behind blankets and words and laughter and stares. He hid in his very skin.

So what was he hiding from?

When he looked in the mirror, he saw his skin split open. He saw the mask crack apart, red flames oozing from it, and he saw eyes slip open along the crevices, red and brilliant and gleaming, and he watched his jaw unhinge and his teeth grow long and uneven, sharpened to the point where they caught on his lips and tore right through them.

He looked in the mirror and saw Grima staring back.

He didn't really look in the mirror at all anymore.

He just covered them all up. It was easier that way.

So he hid from himself and he hid from the world.

He even hid from Lucina.

Where had she even gone? He was their tactician! She was supposed to inform him when she had a plan so he could devise a strategy to match it!

Part of him was relieved that she hadn't talked to him.

He remembered the days when things had been easy. When being Grima had meant little to him, when it had just been a part of him, something as natural as the hair on his head. He never thought anything of the voice in his head, the whispers, the sweet lust for destruction that seemed to be ingrained in his existence. It had never seemed like a burden before.

Sometimes he remembered his mother. Not Grima, not the visage that Grima had taken, but his mother, Robin, the woman who could do anything. He remembered her with vicious clarity, and yet somehow he'd forgotten her altogether. It was so cruel. The world was so cruel!

"Good morning, Morgan."

He passed by Nah as he tip toed into the throne room. He was barefoot, shirtless, and he watched his footprints in the dust. He didn't like answering her. It was bad enough that Grima did this, but now Nah? He was haunted by enough people he loved. He didn't need her taunting.

"You know I'm here to help you, right?" Nah looked a little put out, and he tried not to look at her for too long. Even at this hour of the morning it was hot and muggy, dust swirling around in the dipping morning light. He loved this place. He loved the twinge of electricity in the air. He danced along the fallen columns, balancing and pointing, his eyes flickering and revising, reconstructing, replaying. He could pin-point the exact spot where his mother had struck his father with that Thoron spell.

He could almost taste the sparks inside his mouth, bouncing around excitedly, waiting to be expelled.

He jolted to a stop in the midst of his mad dance, his limbs jerking to a stop as his bare feet squeaked across the tile. Nah stood now where his father had stood then. And Morgan?

He looked down at his hands. If he stared at them long enough in this dim, tremulous light, they'd look to be painted a brilliant shade of red.

Not that Nah's death had been particularly bloody.

"That's where my father stood," Morgan whispered, "when he died."

Nah titled her head, a smooth braid falling off one shoulder. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I did it," he explained with a shrug. He didn't want to move. She didn't seem to either. She hadn't any reaction, of course. He figured she was a figment of his imagination, a sure sign of his madness.

"Because you are Grima," Nah said softly. "Is that what you think, Morgan? That all of Grima's crimes are naturally yours because you happen to share the same body?"

"We don't just share the same body," Morgan objected, feeling foolish for arguing with his own subconscious guilt. "Grima and I are one!"

"Oh, shut up!" Nah puffed out her cheeks irritably. "Gods, do you ever listen to yourself? You can't actually believe that nonsense!"

"I am Grima!" Morgan was angry now. He gritted his teeth, listening to his voice ricochet off the empty walls. This place seemed to be built to be ruins. "I am Grima's voice!"

"And I am Naga's!" Nah snapped in return. "And you know how much that means, Morgan? Naga is dead."

"So are you!"

"Yes, and I'll remain dead," she sighed. "Because of you."

Tears of shame filled his eyes. Now he just couldn't take this. It was so pitiful, but she was so innocent to his madness, his horrible nature. She had not deserved to die, but he'd killed her anyway. He'd gone there thinking it would be easy to kill her, and left feeling that living without her would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. And now she was just a constant presence! He was almost sick of her face.

"I'm so sorry, Nah," he whispered.

"That means very little to me now, Morgan. I'm still rather dead."

The tears fell, and he stared at her desperately. She was a funny kind of specter, a hazy figure of light and shadow swaying perpetually in his field of vision. Lovely and awful. Her body would stay in its beautiful vigil forever, and the rest of her was just going to haunt him until he finally put himself to the knife.

He fell to his knees, and he let his entire body fall into a lax position. If he remained nonthreatening and weak, maybe she'd realize how vulnerable he was and she'd leave him alone. Wasn't that a nice thought? Hell. This was hell.

Still preferable to Grima, though, he supposed.

Though he loved Grima implicitly.

And he loved Nah implicitly.

There was just something about being watched and taunted that did not sit well with him.

"I don't know what to do…" he mumbled, dropping his face into his hands. He didn't want to see this dead girl any longer. He just wanted to sink into his despair. He was utterly helpless.

"Go find Owain," Nah suggested, her voice sweet and mellifluous. "Apologize and he'll take you back!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Morgan's words were thick with tears. "He'd never! He couldn't! I'm a traitor, I can't go back now!"

"You don't know Owain," she insisted. "He would make an exception for you."

"No," Morgan croaked, his hands sliding from his tear-slick face. "He'd execute me on the spot. Within good reason, you know."

She turned her face away, and as Morgan looked at her, her expression hazy and troubled, he wondered for the first time if she was real. If somehow he was really being haunted by Nah. If this was his divine punishment for slaying her so underhandedly.

"Well, that's true," she said brightly. "You'd deserve it, certainly!"

He lowered his head, staring at the dusty floor, observing the thick streaks where his feet had smeared the layers and layers away. Here he was, a prince of Ylisse and Plegia, sitting in the dusty ruins of the castle that should have been his. It was apt. He was a royal mess, a massive destructive force. He was heir to a kingdom of suffering.

"Would you like that?" he asked her, leaning closer with widening eyes. Tears still stained his cheeks, cold and moist. "If that's what you want, I'll go to Owain now and let him execute me for your murder."

"No," she gasped, taking a step back. She was no longer standing where his father had stood, and he took comfort in that fact. He sprang to his feet. "Don't be stupid! I just want you to—!"

"You are not real," Morgan snapped at her. "You're just my guilt manifesting in an awful, awful way. No, I will not fall for this. I've done my share of grieving for you, I think."

Nah's eyes were brilliant and shining, and Morgan recalled Ricken's dull gaze when he'd pulled the boy gently, whispering into his ear that he could have been the most loyal subject, that he had so much potential, as his skin was lovingly torn from his muscles.

Not even kissing that girl had made that pain and guilt go away.

He supposed Grima chose a human host to suffer for their sins. While Grima wrought havoc, tearing families apart and razing whole countries to the ground, Morgan was the one who was left with the empty pit in his stomach. Morgan was the one who felt the massive weight of the tragedies he inflicted. Morgan was the guilty one.

Killing Nah had been the last straw. Before that, Grima's slaughtering had felt so distant to him. It was perfectly okay, because it was Grima, and Grima loved him, and would never hurt him. But by killing Nah, Grima _had_ hurt him. Intentionally and unreservedly, Grima had torn something precious to him from the world. To keep him in line. To keep him from straying from Grima's loving side.

But it had the opposite effect. Instead of running to Grima for comfort, Morgan had the veil torn from his eyes. His love for Grima had not, could not change, but he felt sick when he thought of the beast inside of him. That beast that had killed Nah. That beast that had killed his father. That beast that was him and him alone, for his mother had not survived Grima's return in spite of her body being in perfect condition.

He wished he could tell Lucina these things. But Grima had blinded her worse than him. She was utterly ensnared, and worse, she'd dragged so many people down with her. _She was meant for greatness_, Morgan thought, his entire body trembling as he wandered into the washroom, swaying as he drew a bath_. I stole that greatness away. Lucina would never be Grima's servant if she were not so devoted to me_.

That was it. Lucina was devoted to Grima because she was devoted to Morgan! He was the one with his hands over her eyes, guiding her hand as she lopped head after head from shoulder after shoulder. It was his fault. His blood. It was his doing.

It had to end.

He thought about Nah's proposal, to go to Owain, but that seemed like far too much work and far too much time for Grima to get wind of what he was doing. No, he would take responsibility for his own blunders, for his own sins.

He dumped flower petals into the swirling water, watching them float around the large, gray pitted basin. He went to his room to retrieve his mother's coat, which he pulled on and smothered himself in, inhaling the long faded scent of her. He imagined she had smelled like Lucina. Had she acted like Lucina? He was at a loss now. When he thought of his mother, he thought of Grima, but he knew that they were as different as Grima and himself. He ached with guilt that it had taken him so long to realize this.

As he walked back to the washroom, he pulled the beautiful brazen circlet he'd had forged from his pocket. He watched Nah's dragonstone glint madly, green and uneven, an ancient, glowing jewel, and the only thing he had left of her aside from the specter haunting him. He'd taken it knowing it would be a good prize to show off, but truthfully he just wanted to keep her close. He placed the crown on his head, and he turned to look in the mirror.

A gauzy eyed boy in a diadem smiled back, empty and sluggish. It was the most beautiful thing Morgan had ever seen.

He climbed into the tub, the water lukewarm and the petals dancing around him, as stark in the dim light as the fireflies had been the night he'd struck Nah with that Thoron. His mother's coat fanned out around him as he sunk deeper into the water. He saw Nah standing before him, beautiful and divine, and he smiled at her, his chin brushing the surface of the water. She smiled back.

"I loved you," Morgan admitted.

"You didn't even know me," she said sadly. "I thought I loved you, but the truth is, I just loved the idea of saving you. And now I'm dead. And now you're hopeless."

"You're wrong," he said, lowering himself further beneath the water, the scent of flower petals overwhelming him. It reminded him of her and her beautiful corpse. "I loved you because you understood me. You know the pressure of being connected to something divine, and you know that it's impossible to live up to the expectations put upon you. You know that I'm weak and vulnerable, and I know you are… you were… too. How else would I have been able to kill you?" He smiled at her brightly. "Nah, I loved you because you and I are exactly the same."

She stood, stunned and speechless. And then she smiled, her visage brightening. There were tears in her eyes, and they were falling strangely, floating away from her eyes and falling upward.

"Thank you, Nah," he told her, his eyes large and bright and his voice filled with excitement. "You saved me."

"How…?" she looked puzzled and amazed.

He laughed. He pulled a dagger from the pocket of his heavy, floating coat and he drew a dripping arm from the water.

Her eyes widened, and she shrieked, a divine sound that rocked the earth. "Morgan, don't!"

He slashed his wrist open, smiling in relief, and submerged himself beneath the water and the petals, watching blood cloud his vision as it swirled and misted across his vision, mingling with the soft waves of his hair and the billowing mass of fabric of his water-trodden coat.

For the first time in a very long time, Morgan felt happy and free.

* * *

><p><em>Run away, okay?<em>

Owain bolted upright, the sight of Gerome's faceless silhouette falling before him, blood spurting in a beautiful arc and splattering across his face. He patted his cheeks and neck and torso, feeling for wetness, but it was only sweat, and he listened to his ragged breaths, ghostly pains still plaguing his sides.

The barn was dark. He was panting, and his entire body hurt.

He didn't really remember the battle. He just knew that he'd killed Gerome, and that Yarne had died saving them. He dropped his face into his hands, taking deep breaths to keep himself from panicking. It was okay. It was okay. But then he thought of Nah, and tears sprang into his eyes.

None of them had deserved it.

_If Lucina were on our side_, he thought, nausea creeping up on him, _if she were the exalt instead of me, this would never have happened. Nobody would have died on her watch._

It was a harsh blow to his ego, but it's not like he didn't already know. He would live in Lucina's shadow until he died. And that had been okay until suddenly all his friends started dropping one by one in a quick succession. He didn't know who he wanted to be, but he knew it wasn't this. How could he fill the shoes of his uncle, of his aunt? How could he possibly be exalt when the people before him were so selfless and so great?

How could he even think he was worthy to take up the Falchion, when he couldn't even protect the people who meant most to him?

It was just simply unfair. Owain had not wanted this. He'd wanted, of course, to be exalt. He knew that part of him had always been envious of Lucina, and part of him had always wanted the Falchion, but this? This was not worth it.

Being exalt was not worth the pain.

He got up, untangling himself from the mass of bodies that had accumulated on the barn floor. They'd found shelter, if not a meager one, thanks to the scouting team he'd sent off before the attack. He wished he hadn't sent them off. Yarne would still be alive if they had been there. Killing Gerome would not have been necessary.

It was a dark, starless night, clouds shifting along the surface of the moon so only its faint outline could be made out. He took the Falchion and began walking, dragging it behind him and listening to its heavy blade drag a scraggly trail in the dirt. He was exhausted, but sleeping was too hard. In his dreams he saw everyone he loved and everyone he'd lost. His mother, his father, his aunt, his uncle, his accursed cousins, Nah, Gerome, Yarne.

Sleep was for the weak anyway.

He could not be weak. Not now.

If he had to kill them all, he supposed he would.

He didn't really have any other choice, did he?

There was no reasoning with them now.

He'd kill them all. Even Lucina. Even Morgan.

He found himself taking to a tree trunk with the blade of the Falchion, driving fast, uneven strokes, listening to the heavy _thwunk-thwunk_ of each blow. Every swing was like a hopeless attempt to bat away each and every fear he'd ever had, each and every doubt, each and every sorrow. He wanted to shed himself of all the guilt and all the pain, but the more he swung, the heavier he felt. It was just getting worse! He could hardly breathe, he was so scared, so frustrated! How could this happen? How could he have let this happen?

He swung the blade, and he felt the weight of his father's hands on his shoulders.

"There." That was the usual grumble, the soft sound of his father's voice as he directed Owain's strength and guided him through the blows. "Quick about it, Owain."

"Gotcha!" Owain had always been such an excited child. He wished he could go back to those carefree days. He'd throw his weight into each attack, and his father dragged him back, swatting his behind lightly with the wooden sword.

"You're too slow. Quick about it, I said. Don't launch yourself, let your steps be natural."

His father had always been a daunting figure in his life, a man of tall stature who was either never there or always lurking in the background. Owain's mother, Lissa, now she was the crown jewel of his memories, stunning and bright, a beacon in the darkness. But Lon'qu had not been a bad father. He'd been affectionate in his own way, preferring small, quiet gestures to the grandiose loving his mother smothered him with. While Lissa squished him with hugs and covered him with kisses, Lon'qu watched him whenever he was home, always watching with curious eyes, watching his feet and watching his arms, watching and watching and watching. Owain hadn't understood it, but his mother explained that his attention was undividedly attached to Owain, and that was something special indeed.

Lon'qu loved Owain. He took him out for walks, letting Owain talk and talk and talk, and he just listened, ever the stoic, ever the aloof figure, but Owain never minded. Sometimes Owain would hug his father's leg, and the man would lift it up, pulling Owain along with it. Lon'qu carried Owain on his shoulders, held Owain's hand while they walked, and he even patted Owain's head when he was really impressed with him. He'd been a good father. Distant, but good.

Owain missed him terribly.

"Got it, got it!" He slid his feet across the forest floor. It had always been commonplace to train with his father in the woods. Two wooden swords and a mountain of learning. Could anything really go wrong? Of course not! Lon'qu was far too skilled, and far too smart! No, nothing would happen to them. Owain bounced over twigs and ducked a swing from his father's wooden blade. He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed, and he had no idea. He'd been so naïve. "Aha! You can't catch me! Bet you can't!"

"Owain…" Even with his reprimanding tone, even with his somber expression, there was amusement in his eyes. That was enough. That was enough…

Owain leaned heavily against the scarred tree, his hair sticking profusely to his forehead, sweat causing his underclothes to become a second skin. He heaved, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and with one last bout of strength he hurled the Falchion away, sinking to his knees and screaming. The sound ripped across the night air and echoed into the trees.

_I've already failed_, he thought, his shoulders slumping. _I've already lost_.

A shudder ran through him as a heavy piece fabric draped around his shoulder, a makeshift blanket. He touched it, and it was coarse and woolen. Tears blinded him.

"Inigo?" he uttered, reaching out blindly.

"Nah." The grass rustled beside him, and Owain blinked as Brady's long, scarred face became clear in the midst of the darkness. "Only me. Heard ya get up, thought I might as well check on ya. Make sure, ya know, ya don't go nuts."

"I'm fine," he said impulsively.

Brady stared at him for a long time. Owain flushed, realizing his blunder. He was clearly not fine. Brady knew that. But Owain had said it so naturally, so genuinely, and now the truth was out.

Owain was never truly fine.

"I'm gonna let that one slide," Brady said, turning his face away. "But only because you're pretty damn pitiful right now."

"Thanks, Brady."

"Shut up."

Owain wiped his tears hurriedly, and he smiled at his old friend. His hand was twitching, though he could probably blame it on the fact that he'd cramped it through arduous training.

"What are you doing up, then?"

"Can't sleep," Brady grunted, shrugging.

Owain watched him. He tilted his head, and he scooted closer. "And why not?" he asked.

Brady took a deep breath. He stared ahead. "Nah," he said.

"You can tell me," Owain whispered, his eyes wide. "I'd never tell a soul, you know that!"

"No, Owain, I meant Nah." Brady shot him an irritated glance. "As in our dead friend."

"Oh." Owain wanted to disappear. He smiled, and he laughed. "Right, sorry. I know what you mean. I see her when I dream too."

"I just keep thinking," Brady sighed, "that if… if I was there… I could've saved her. I couldn't determine cause of death, of course, but whatever means it was, it was clean. There was no blood at all, and she was blemish free. M-my guess…" He was shaking, his lips trembling and his eyes cast low. "Thoron. It's Morgan we're talking about."

"Inigo and Noire sensed the dark magic there from the moment they arrived, you know," Owain murmured.

"I noticed they've got the knack for that." Brady closed his eyes. "I just wanna know what kinda monster does that. Nah cared about Morgan, y'know? She really, really did. And she… she…" Brady was suddenly crying, and Owain rubbed his back, smiling and nodding. "Gods! I'll kill that little bastard! She didn't deserve that, Owain!"

"No," he murmured. "No, she did not."

Brady wiped at his eyes fiercely. "I don't wanna hurt Morgan," he said, his demeanor changing suddenly. "But what he did… that's just inexcusable. And now Lucina's gone and done the same, killin' Yarne and all that. Owain, we have to do something."

"I know."

"Then we have to take them out." Brady squeezed his eyes shut. "I hate it. I hate the thought! But if we get rid of the lot of them, then we can settle this. We can get rid of Grima, and we can finally be free of this war!"

"It's not that easy, Brady." Owain patted him on the shoulder. "I don't want to kill my cousins."

"If you can kill Gerome," Brady said, staring into Owain's eyes, "then you can kill Lucina and Morgan."

"It's not that simple…"

"Make it that simple!" Brady jumped to his feet. "I can't lose anyone else, Owain, I'll go mad!"

"I'm sorry."

"Why are ya apologizing?" Brady huffed, and he cracked his knuckles. "Whatever. We'll find a way to win. We have to."

"Yes," Owain agreed, nodding his head. He smiled, and he felt empty. "Right! Exactly."

Brady smiled down at him. He offered out a hand, and Owain took it.

"Please," Brady whispered to him as he helped him to his feet. "Stop pretending, Owain. No one is watching. No one cares if you're falling apart right now."

"You are," Owain gasped, shaking and blinking. "You do…"

"I'll slap ya. I swear to the gods, I'm gonna slap ya."

He smiled, and it was a somewhat real one. "Okay, okay," he sighed. "Maybe I'm acting too much. But what else am I to do? I'm the leader. I have to act unfazed. Cool."

"Owain," Brady said, taking him by the shoulders. He shook him suddenly and furiously. "News flash! Ya aren't cool! You've never been cool!"

"What?" He felt positively heartbroken. "What are you saying? What…? _Never_?"

"Never! Never once! Not even a little bit!"

"I'm…" Owain pressed his hand to his chest, and he stumbled back. "Oh… oh no…" He threw his other arm into the air. "Heart attack!" He flopped onto his back into the grass.

"Good riddance," Brady sniffed. "That guy was a total nuisance."

Owain twitched, and he snorted. "Yeah, right. You'd be lost without me!"

"True." Brady knelt down beside him, and he offered out a crooked smile. "Feel better?"

Owain flushed, and he smiled back. He kicked Brady's feet out from under him, cackling as his old friend came crashing to the ground. "Now I do!"

"Ow!" Brady sat upright, and he scowled. "Uncalled for!"

Owain laughed. He felt good. He felt really, genuinely good. "Thank you," he said earnestly. He resisted the urge to pull Brady into a hug. "I want you to know that I am going to keep fighting until my very last for a better future. And it's… your faith in me… all of you… that's what makes me want to succeed."

"Glad to hear it." Brady took a deep breath, and he looked at him with a very serious expression. "Now, I gotta ask. What is the plan?"

"Oh." Owain laughed nervously. "Yeah. I have no idea."

"That's real unsurprising."

"Oops?"

Brady yawned, and he stood up. "Well," he said, striding through the grass. "It can't get any worse, can it?" He was a slumped silhouette in the darkness. He picked up the hilt of the Falchion, and offered it to Owain.

"Don't say that, Brady," he sighed, taking the Falchion back and reveling in how light it felt. It was as though Brady had lifted the burden of it somehow, merely by being present right here and right now. "You have no idea what fate has in store for us now."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

It was always a race. Move forward, don't look back, eyes on the prize. That kind of thing. She had to push herself to her limits to keep her lead, to understand that being the best meant sacrificing a bit, like her ability to breathe or walk normally. She had to keep going regardless of how her body rejected this, because she had to win. She had to beat him.

With Gerome, it had always been a contest. _I can beat you_, she thought firmly. _I can beat you, and you can kiss the ground I walk on!_

Because he was better than her. Somehow, someway, this boy was faster and stronger and more loyal than she could ever dream. It made her sick with jealousy. It made her sick with guilt. Because he was loyal to _her_. What a joke! And what had that done for him in the end, loving her unconditionally, throwing his life and dreams away for her cause?

How could Owain do such a thing?

She was struggling to comprehend it. She'd never thought Owain capable of hurting a friend, let alone killing one. And of course she understood that Owain still loved all who betrayed him, there was no question of it. So how? How on earth did he muster up the courage to strike Gerome down?

Lucina was reeling in how undeniably weak she was.

Yarne had been the first. She'd never killed one of her own before him, and her hands still shook terribly. She folded them behind her back when Laurent came stumbling toward the corpse, staring at the severed head that rested at her feet. Yarne's thick fur was matted with blood. She pretended the stench didn't make her feel sick.

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back.

How had Owain done it?

How had _Morgan_ done it?

She felt so guilty now for making her brother take Nah's life. She understood now why he'd reacted so violently in despair, rejecting all compliments and care. Killing Yarne had torn a hole in her chest, and she didn't think she'd be able to repair it. She didn't think she could feel anything anymore. She didn't think she could function as a girl, as Chrom's child, as someone who could lead, when she'd ripped herself apart from the inside in order to prove some kind of twisted point. That Grima was all powerful. That Owain, that Gerome, that Morgan, that Yarne, that none of them were stronger than her.

But the cost had been too high, and now she felt faint and distant, like her entire being had half-faded.

She'd made a leap over a chasm and fallen right in. She couldn't even scream as she plummeted. This was what she deserved.

"Take the head," she ordered Severa. The girl was slumped on the ground, bloody and panting, her ponytails drooping and her eyes dull. She stared at Gerome, and her brow furrowed. Like she was confused by the sight of his blood soaked corpse.

"Gerome's?" she whispered.

"Yarne's." Lucina whirled to face Laurent. "Heal Severa and then help me bury Gerome. We can't take his body across the desert, so this will be where he rests."

"He would have liked it better if he were with Minerva…" Laurent seemed to be offering an alternative place, but he didn't quite understand the magnitude of the situation.

"We cannot move him," Lucina said sharply. "He was the strongest, and now he's dead. We bury him here and pray to Grima. Understood?"

"Let's burn him," Severa suggested. Lucina glanced at her, and noted how the girl easily stood up in spite of her injuries. "Burying would be the Ylissean way to go about it, don't you think? Besides, I don't want to see him become a Risen."

Lucina considered her words. Part of her, a sick, whispery part, came crawling from the shadows and latched itself onto her, gnawing at her emotions and chewing them to paste. She was not capable of fighting this monster within her, so she gave in. It was too difficult to be the best now.

"I hadn't thought of that," she admitted, staring at Gerome's corpse. She took a few careful strides through the blood soaked grass, and she knelt beside him. He already smelled of death, and he was already waning from the decay that was settling quickly around him. She stared at him, searching her heart for any feeling, any anguish, but she found that she could find nothing. He was just a man who had loved her, and she was left with this ugly corpse. She pried his mask from his pallid face, and she thought about kissing him, letting him have this one thing in death, for she knew that it was all that he'd wanted.

She gritted her teeth. No. It'd be a waste. He was gone anyway, what was the use in kissing a corpse? What was the use in taking care of one?

No. After death, corpses were just fleshy husks that rapidly decayed. No one got grand burials. Not her aunt Emmeryn, not her father. Gerome was no different.

She fastened the mask to her face, and she stood. She whirled around, waving Severa and Laurent forward.

"Come," she said. "We're leaving."

They both stood, staring at her in shock and mild horror.

"But," Severa gasped, "Lucina!"

"Leave him," she said, marching through the abandoned campsite. "If he becomes Risen, well, that's just another weapon we have against Owain. Let's go."

They seemed so reluctant to follow her. She did not blame them. She didn't want to follow herself either.

Let them call her heartless. It would be true enough, wouldn't it?

She wasn't sure if there was anything left of Chrom's daughter. Lucina was just another empty husk for Grima to fill up with hatred and manipulate into destruction.

The journey wasn't arduous by any means. They were easily sheltered and fed, though it was because the fear of the few living civilians outweighed their palpable hatred. Lucina found herself keeping the mask on, unable to part with it, biting her tongue when spoken to. She was already Grima's daughter, but now she knew she was Grima's toy.

There was no turning back now. Grima was her only option.

Before returning to the castle, Lucina pulled Severa aside, watching the girl blink confusedly. She was distrustful of Lucina now. It should have hurt more than it did. But the truth was, Lucina didn't care. Severa was just as lovestruck as Gerome, and that was enough.

"I want you to do something for me," Lucina said, clenching Severa's bicep.

And Severa, quick as ever, batted her eyelashes and quipped, "Anything for my majesty."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Severa," Lucina sighed. "I truly just need you to do a task for me, is that manageable? Or would banishment serve you better?"

Severa grew very quiet. _That was a joke_, Lucina ached to say, but she realized it was too late, that there was no way to salvage their relationship. That what she'd done to Yarne and Gerome had severed her bond with this girl.

"What do you want me to do?" Severa asked, her tone very tense.

Lucina stared at her through the confines of her mask, and she whirled around. She gathered her great mass of blue hair together, and she tilted her head back. "Cut it off," she said.

Severa was very quiet. And then, hesitantly, she obliged. The sound of her knife sawing through the thick strands made Lucina wince. Perhaps she was more attached to the hair than she'd been to Gerome! How unbearably sad and laughable that was!

When she was done, Lucina felt as though a weight had lifted off her chest. She touched the shorn locks, running her fingers through the choppy strands, and she relaxed a bit. This was a good look. With a mask and shortened hair, she could fully forsake the girl who'd grown in Ylisse, the future exalt that went astray. She could let herself be someone else.

"How do I look?" she asked Severa.

Her friend merely stared at her. She held the knife gingerly, and her soft face only seemed to harden the longer she looked upon this new Lucina. Perhaps she was thinking how much she loathed her.

"Like someone else," Severa answered curtly.

Lucina smiled, and it felt misplaced and twisted.

"Good."

She returned home, ignoring Laurent's stares, and she took a deep breath of thick desert air. It felt different somehow. Her skin felt too tight, and her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. She was trapped in this husk, and she realized that she felt imprisoned by her own lack of will.

"Morgan," she called, peering into his room. She found it empty. She paused, staring into the depths of it, and something seemed to twist in the pit of her stomach. The atmosphere was all wrong. The ambience that her brother set, the restlessness that pervaded from the room, was gone. She stepped inside, and she let her boots glide across the cleared floor. He'd cleaned the books and the papers and the maps and the ink bottles, and everything was suddenly neat.

She felt as though she'd fallen into a crypt. She could feel the ghosts of things she knew here, and it made her ache inside.

"Morgan…?" She wandered around the room, listening to her own hesitant footfalls, her own heavy breaths, thinking that maybe she shouldn't have left him alone, thinking that she should have brought him along, thinking that she was the worst sister in history, the worst daughter in history, and she was thinking that maybe she deserved this. Without Morgan, who was she? Without that boy, without his sweet smile and his innocent words, where did she belong?

Perhaps he'd run away.

_He wouldn't go to Owain_, she thought firmly, whirling around and around and around, her feet circling one spot as she spun, spotting her movements like a dancer. Inigo would be proud.

She was struck by a terrible thought, and she halted, hair choppy hair falling into her face. He wouldn't. He couldn't!

Until this moment, she hadn't realized how frightened she was of being alone.

"Morgan!" she cried, bolting from his room and into the hall, navigating the turns and the staircases, frantic and foolish and fearful. She felt like a child again, tears burning her eyes, like she was playing hide and seek and Morgan had beaten her. "Morgan!"

Severa skidded in front of her, holding out her hands and pushing Lucina back when she tried to get past her. "Tell me what's wrong," she demanded.

"I…" Lucina felt faint and dizzy. "Morgan… Morgan, Severa, Morgan!"

"What about Morgan?"

"I don't know!" Lucina shoved Severa aside, marching past her and shouting her brother's name once more.

"Lucina! Calm down!" Severa ran after her, biting her lower lip and hovering by Lucina's shoulder. "He's probably fine, just calm down for a minute and think—!"

"I shouldn't have left him alone!" Lucina kicked a wall, and then when that did not release any of her rage, she screamed. She screamed because she was angry, and she screamed because she was empty, and she screamed because there were things in her head that made her want to escape, like she was being caged up inside of her skeleton, like something was inside her, pinning her to this maddening rhythm of Grima's dance.

"Lucina!" Severa held both of her arms, and when Lucina finally let herself go, Severa caught her, pulling her close and hugging her tightly. She smelled like blood and sweat, but she had strong arms, and she seemed to genuinely care that Lucina had lost herself, which was reassuring somehow.

She felt weak. Was that normal? To feel weak. Helpless. Alone.

She wanted to cry, but she didn't think she had the will to.

_Mother_, she thought helplessly, sinking into Severa's arms_. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't protect him and I'm sorry that I let this go on for so long. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to fight Grima. I'm sorry. I'm sorry_…

"Lucina?" A familiar voice seemed to shatter her very mind, breaking through the haze that clouded her thoughts and withdrawing her from the vicious smoke, the poisonous smog. She blinked in shock and peered past Severa's shoulder. Morgan stood there, his head tilted as he watched her. "Why are you screaming?"

"Morgan," she gasped, leaping to her feet and running at him. She scooped him into her arms, pulling him to her and squeezing him tight. He smelled nice, the scent of flowers clinging to his skin, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, smiling to herself as she let the feeling of his pulse lull her into a state of negligence. He did not hug her back.

"Well," he said, "I can't say this is unexpected. Do explain, Lucina, won't you? You're squeezing me very hard."

"I thought you were dead," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"What put that idea into your head?"

"I…" She found herself pulling back slowly, staring into his face. He watched her with large, innocent eyes. "I'm not sure. I just felt like something bad happened to you."

"That's very impressive," he admitted. She stared at him. He could not see her expression, but somehow he knew she was confused. "There was a bit of a mishap a few hours ago, but I'm quite alright now. Oh, but do me a favor? Dispose of that damn crown."

"Crown?" Lucina shook her head furiously. "What kind of mishap? Morgan—!"

"Would it disturb you to know I've been seeing Nah lately?" Morgan asked her suddenly, turning away. Lucina froze. "I see her everywhere I go, and she just talks and talks, as if she were a real girl and not some awful apparition. Disgusting, really. It has to go away."

"He means the circlet he brought back from when he killed Nah," Severa explained, stepping up beside Lucina and folding her arms across her chest. "It has her dragonstone in it."

"Oh." Lucina had forgotten all about that. Why did it matter if he had that or not? Honestly, this boy made no sense! "Okay, Morgan. Just tell me where it is."

"In the bathtub." Morgan waved at her as he strolled away.

A cold feeling spread out through her, unfurling its wings and beating at her chest. She wanted to believe in Morgan, but she was not a fool, and she felt little of his presence but a great wall rising between them. She wanted to speak with him, to tell him that she understood his anguish over Nah's death, but she realized it was too late for that.

_I've already lost him_, she thought, scrambling to reassemble herself. She shrugged off Severa's touch, letting herself regain some semblance of composure, and she lifted her chin high.

"Tell Laurent to meet with me in an hour in my room," she told Severa curtly. Severa merely looked puzzled.

"I'm not a messenger, Lucina," she said coldly. Lucina glanced at her, watching her boots slide unsteadily backwards as she moved away. "Tell him yourself."

There was a straining sickness knotting up in the pit of her belly. She felt what it was to be hated.

She made her way to the washroom, thinking of her mother's face, sweet and warm, and thinking that she could hardly remember her father at all. Maybe she just didn't want to see his face in her head and know that she had failed him. It was truly pathetic, how scared she was of her father. Her mother was Grima, her mother was Robin, but her father, he… he was a piece of the puzzle that did not fit, and it terrified her.

She was terrified. Perpetually terrified.

Of the future. Of the past.

Of her fate…

The world around her seemed fake, and she wondered what it would have been like if she'd had a different mother or a different father, if her fate would be something else, if she'd be walking through this hall, or walking to her execution. She wanted to know this world, what it meant, what she meant to it. She wanted to know what was left to fear and fear for, if Grima was hell bent on destroying everything.

She'd never once thought of what Grima's ultimate goal could be.

What was the use of ruling a world with no one in it?

Lucina came upon the washroom, and she stared vacantly into it. The sickness in the pit of her stomach toiled and rumbled and she pressed her hands to her lips shakily, taking slow steps toward the tub, her mind running back, back to when things were simpler, when her mother had found her with Tharja and the blood had stung hot inside her mouth.

There was a long trail of blood swept through the room, a zig-zagging path that led to the marble basin. When she neared it, she saw the swirled mass of a stain that clung to the white surface of the tub. So much blood that the stench curled through her nose and scratched at her throat. She bent down, and she plucked up the crown that lay at the center of the great red smear. It dripped as it was disturbed from its murky puddle, and the light of the green dragonstone was properly diminished, splotches like rust clouding its surface.

She clutched the circlet, and she realized she was shaking. It bit into her fingers and made her want to bleed out for her sins.

"Oh, I did make a mess, didn't I?" Morgan asked from the doorway. She straightened up and glanced at him. He was smiling.

"Why?" she whispered. "Lord Grima, you already have a host. Why did you take Morgan? Was my mother not enough?"

"Child," Morgan cooed, their eyes narrowing. Suddenly, Lucina saw Morgan differently. Not as her brother, not as the sweet boy she knew, but as someone else entirely. They looked at her through those clever eyes, and they were her brother and someone else and something else. "I _am_ your mother. Are you forgetting that so soon?"

"But you have a host!" She just couldn't fathom it. Her mother had been Grima, so why was Grima now Morgan? It made no sense! "I don't understand! You were my mother, so why take my brother as well? Grima—!"

"Silence," they snapped. Lucina shut her mouth and bowed her head. She felt like a child. "Is it any business of yours why I have a new body? Perhaps I merely wanted it."

"Morgan's been nothing but a loyal subject to you," Lucina whispered.

"Which is why I gave him the ultimate gift." Morgan cocked their head, and they strolled into the room, minding the blood and circling her slowly. She could feel their eyes, and she felt sick, as though they were looking right through her and seeing into her very soul. "This is what he wanted."

"Then why is there so much blood?" Lucina gasped. "Grima, I love you, you know I love you, but answer me! I must know what happened to Morgan!"

"He's right here," they said, blinking at her innocently. The way their voice lilted, the life in their eyes, it almost fooled her. She was crippled by her own love. _Who do I love more? Morgan or Grima?_ "I did nothing but save his life, Lucina. I don't know why you're so upset."

"You took his body, and now I don't feel him anymore," she whispered. "Lord Grima, please. Let him have control of his body again."

They hummed, leaning back against the sink and peering up at the ceiling. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she prayed silently. To who? It didn't really matter at this point. Any deity that would answer her prayer.

"No."

"No?" Lucina gasped. She found herself bristling in her rage. "Well, why _not_?"

"Because I quite like this body. It's so young and lively. So… pure."

_Oh gods_, Lucina thought, bile stinging the back of her throat.

"What does that matter?" she asked in a low, strained voice. "Was my mother not pure enough for you?"

"Again, Lucina, I am your mother. And your brother. And your sister. And, if you like…" They pushed off the sink, striding toward her and reaching out. Lucina stumbled back, her heel slipping against the slick puddle of blood, and she failed to regain her footing, plummeting backward. They caught her mask before she fell, tearing it from her face, and she gasped as pain burst through her head, a blinding shock of disorientation and an explosion of stars. The back of her head had hit the ledge of the tub, and she lay in an awkward heap, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them, Morgan's face floated eerily above hers, their eyes murky and red. Their breath tickled her cheeks. "I could be you as well."

She could not steel herself from her horror. She pushed her brother off her, and she vomited into the tub, her body overtaken with spasms, the scent of blood too strong and the pain in her head blinding her senses. She retched, her vomit sloshing and swirling along with the spiraling red puddle, and that sight only made her puke more, her stomach aching and her back arching. Morgan's laughter filled her ears, filled her head, and it served as the music to her despair.

She slumped in defeat, blood seeping into her thigh and bile trickling from her lips. She wiped her mouth and rested her sweaty forehead against the cool stone basin.

"Was that too much?" Morgan asked, plopping down beside her. "I'm sorry, I think I got a bit carried away. I have no use for your body, so if that scares you, do not fear. You were not made to be mine."

She bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Did that mean that Morgan had been?

"Oh, yes," they answered her thought. "You were made with Chrom's interests in mind, but Morgan… well, I wanted something that suited me perfectly. He played his part very well, and I'll give him credit where it's due. This body is amazing."

"Is Morgan still in there?" Lucina whispered, unable to look at her Lord. "Please, just… answer me true. Did you kill him?"

"Lucina." They grasped her chin and forced her to look into their large red eyes. "I _am_ him. I am Morgan. He is me. One cannot exist without the other. Do you understand?"

"I think so," she whispered.

"Good." They dragged her face closer and kissed her, their lips careful and precise, their teeth sharp and vicious, and their tongue searching her for lies and stealing away all her tears. She squeezed her eyes shut, and she forced their lips apart. Morgan laughed at her as she half fell over the side of the tub and hurled her guts out once more. "Oh, I forgot. Humans find this kind of thing indecent between kin, right? That's a shame."

She heaved, blinded by the pain in her head and by the tears that clouded her vision, making her face hot and sticky. They just wouldn't stop. The pain, the sickness, it just wouldn't stop.

"Calm down," they said flatly. "I want to speak with you candidly. If you cannot handle that, then I will not speak with you at all."

Very quickly, Lucina reined in all her emotions, smothering her tears with her sleeve, and she rested the circlet in her lap as she sat up attentively. Morgan nodded in approval.

"Now," they said, licking their lips. "I've done enough human kissing, I think, to understand its effect. You're the first person to ever vomit, but I suppose I'll overlook it. Other than the bile, you taste like your father."

That made her feel even more nauseated than before, if possible. She watched them with large eyes.

"Does that make you sick?" Morgan sounded so amused, their red eyes flashing brightly. "Humans are so strange! I just do what is customary action for you, and you get uncomfortable about it! I made you, Lucina, don't act so shy about it."

"Humans don't kiss their kin like that, Grima," she whispered.

"Well, I am not human," Morgan replied vacantly. "So I don't care. I'll do what I like to whomever I like."

She shuddered. Morgan rolled their eyes, and sighed. "Don't get so antsy about it, this body is still too young to be clouded by sexuality. That is a predominantly human trait that only concerns me when procreation is involved. You need only concern yourself if I need another host."

"Not with me," Lucina snapped. "I may serve you, Grima, but I am not my father. Find someone else."

"It would have been Nah," Morgan chuckled, as though they were simply joking about current events. "But unfortunately she has more power over this body than I initially anticipated. Which is truly unfortunate. A manakete body would be perfect for me, and I'd no longer have to worry about something so fickle as human procreation."

"You killed her," Lucina murmured. "Not Morgan."

"I am Morgan, Lucina."

She was finding it harder and harder to believe that.

"Then you must have loved her too," Lucina blurted. "I know Morgan loved her. But did you, Grima?"

"She was persistent and stubborn. I hated her." Morgan shrugged. "She tasted like Naga, and everything about her seemed poisonous to me. But I'm still disappointed that I had to waste her."

"That's disgusting."

"That's realistic." They smiled at her brightly. "If I could have swayed her to my side, she could have lived very comfortably, but unfortunately she was much like your father. So I disposed of her similarly and let it be."

"Grima," Lucina whispered. "What was my father like?"

"You don't need to know that."

She stared vacantly ahead of her, bringing her knees to her chest and feeling emptier than she had in a long, long time.

"If Morgan is your host now… what about my mother's body?"

"Morgan has always been my host," they said. "As has your mother. They are both my hosts. I am not hindered to one body like you humans are."

"Oh…" Lucina could feel Nah's dragonstone pressing to her stomach as she hugged her knees tighter to her chest. It felt warm. Lucina knew she could never destroy it.

"I'll help you destroy Owain and the rest," they said, rising to their feet. "He will die, and we will prosper. Soon this will be our world, Lucina. You are my blood, so I will welcome you into it. But do not think of betraying me."

"I could never," she admitted.

Morgan smiled, and it seemed so right on their face, their red eyes multiplying as the room glowed red.

"I'm glad!" they laughed, the sound ricocheting off the bloody floor. "I love you, Lucina!"

"I love you too, Morgan."


End file.
